OTHER  POEMS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Tuii  new  poet,  Wm.  15.  Wright,  whose  volume 
"  The  Brook,  and  other  Poems,"  has  been  received 
by  the  critics,  the  veteran  Dr.  Ripley  at  their  head, 
with  highest  praise,  was  born  in  Goshen,  Orange 
Co.,  this  State,  and  is  not  the  liberal  clergyman  oi 

|  Boston  by  that  name.  He  is  now  thirty-three, 
L  having  graduate:!  at  Princeton  with  high  honor  in 
r  1859.  He  had  intended  to  pass  into  tiieTheologi- 
I  cal  Seminary  and  become  a  Presbyterian  minister, 
but  his  mind  developed  otherwise  and  he  became  a 
deep  student  in  Greek  and  German  philosophy. 
He  served  in  the  war  with  great  credit  and  after 
ward  passed  through  the  N.  Y.  Medical  College, 
and  returned  to  Orange  Co.  to  practice,  remaining 
there  until  he  was  called  to  the  position  he  now 
occupies,  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  in  the 
State  Normal  School  at  Buffalo.  He  is  profoundly 
read  in  the  classics  and  in  philosophy,  and  has  lived 
the  life  of  a  recluse  and  student,  Plato  and  Eras 
mus  being  his  guides.  His  first  poem,  "  High 
land  Rambles"  was  begun  at  21  and  finished  be  lore 
25,  and  was  published  at  Mr.  Emerson's  suggestion 
(Adams  &  Co.,  Boston,  1869) ;  but  though  ot"  char 
acteristic  merit,  it  was  too  long,  was  not  properly 
brought  before  the  public,  and  so  failed.  "  The 
Brook  "  was  partly  composed  while  in  hospital  at 
Baltimore  ;  many  years  after  the  poet  exhumed  it 
from  his  papers  and  completed  it. 


THE    BROOK 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS 


BY 

WILLIAM   B.    WRIGHT. 


NEW    YORK: 

SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG    &    CO. 
1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG    &    CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PART     I. 


THE     BROOK 


T»      O 

5 

LIBRARY 


THE    BROOK. 


i. 

BRIEF  the  search  until  I  heard  him, 

Sweetest  truant  at  his  play  ; 

Such  a  soul  of  laughter  stirred  him, 

Could  not  rest  by  night  or  day. 

Brief  the  search  until  I  found  him 

Gambolling,  crumpling  all  his  bed  ; 

Woods  and  rocks,  that  loved  him,  round  him, 

And  the  brakes  twined  overhead. 

As  I  came,  away  he  sped 

On  fleet  pearly  feet  of  lightning 

Just  behind  a  rosy  croft : 

Flashing  thence  with  sudden  brightening, 

Tossed  his  baby  head  aloft, 


6  THE  BROOK. 

And  with  cries  of  merriment 
Down  the  sombre  forest  went. 

Madly  merry  elfin  soul, 
That  peeps  askance  from  silver,  bubbles, 
Whose  careless  foot  the  tawny  shoal 
Plagues  with  fifty  frothy  troubles, 
Where  is  thy  birthplace,  what  thy  goal  ? 

From  the  mountain's  stubborn  womb, 

See,  he  springs,  a  new-born  creature, 

Clothed  with  grace  and  of  immortal  feature. 

From  its  jail  of  eldest  gloom, 

Lo,  his  naked  spirit  is  set  free, 

And,  drunken  with  his  goodly  liberty, 

Romps  and  frisks  the  heavenly  child  ; 

And  as  a  meteor  wild, 

His  bright  hair  flung  in  flashing  trail 

Backward  from  his  forehead  pale, 

Tiptoe  upon  nimble  feet 

He  visits  and  he  quits  the  sight, 

An  apparition  fair  and  fleet, 


THE  BROOK. 

Shaped  of  wonder  and  pure  delight. 

O  joy,  that  from  a  thing  so  dark 

There  could  be  struck  so  bright  a  spark  ! 

'Tis  but  the  joyous  quality 

Of  life,  that  pricks  his  heart  with  glee. 

So  blithe,  so  rash,  he  cannot  guess 

What  burdens  gather  to  oppress, 

What  world-old  wrestlers,  stanch  and  grim, 

Sit  by  the  wayside  waiting  him  ; 

Whose  savage  grapple  without  ruth, 

Unlocks  the  tender  joints  of  youth. 

The  child  among  his  rattles, 

What  though  he  not  forebode 

The  shock  and  din  of  battles 

That  wait  him  on  the  road  ! 

Suffice  unto  the  happy  elf 

The  wonders  of  his  present  self. 

What  profit,  though  he  knew  that  Fate 

Already  snuffed  his  track, 

Yea,  from  behind  his  very  back 

Reached  stealthy  fingers  to  create 


8  THE  BROOK. 

From  the  toys  he  breaks  and  idly  scatters 
Adamantine  links  of  future  fetters  ! 

Yet  offices  of  sovereign  power 

The  gods  have  granted  him  for  dower  : 

A  sceptre  ripens  for  his  hand, 

And  mustering  myriads  wait  for  his  command. 

A  kingly  germ,  that  shall  wax  vast 

And  over  many  lands  his  shadow  cast. 

And  old  alliances  and  strong 

To  him  by  right  of  birth  belong ; 

Treaties  knit  with  cloud  and  sun, 

That  never  will  their  bond  outrun. 

Fortunate  the  soul  that  greets  him 

Soft  and  kindly  when  he  meets  him. 

What  need  has  my  sweet  child  of  wings  ? 
He  can  out-trip  all  adverse  things. 
See  his  silver  sandal  flash, 
So  cunning-wise,  though  seeming-rash  ! 
So  soft  to  glide,  so  quick  to  flit, 
What  force  can  bind  or  intermit 


THE  BROOK. 

The  motions  of  his  flowing  wit  ? 

In  his  mystic  pace  does  dwell 

All  the  speed  of  Neptune's  shell, 

All  the  stealth  of  Mercury's  heel, 

All  the  fire  of  Phoebus'  wheel. 

Languors  dull  or  grosser  slumber 

Never  stay  his  ramping  limb  : 

The  gods  gave  all  their  gayety 

When  they  modelled  him. 

Playmates  has  he  without  number, 

And  oh  the  joy  it  is  to  see 

Their  games  of  utter  jollity, 

The  graceful  grapples,  the  pettish  quarrels 

Mixt  with  careless  peals  and  blithest  carols. 

Oft  his  lithe  athletic  pranks 

Scale  the  rampart  of  his  banks. 

Now  he  flecks  with  wanton  spurt 

The  thicket's  flower-broidered  skirt ; 

Now  with  light  malicious  dart 

He  elbows  all  the  sleepy  sedges  ; 

Quarrying  now  with  spleenful  art, 

Caverns  all  his  crumbling  edges  ; 


I0  THE  BROOK. 

Now  his  clear  thews  plump  and  strain, 
As  with  tug  and  might  and  main 
He  wrestles  with  the  bulky  ledges, 
Who  with  thievish  foot  thrust  out 
Trip  him  headlong  from  his  route. 
But  no  boisterous  hap  or  rude 
Can  repress  his  nimble  mood. 
Vanquished,  he  wears  the  victor's  crown, 
And,  often  thrown,  is  never  down. 
May'st  dash  him  side-wise  from  the  height- 
Some  god  has  taught  him  this  fine  sleight- 
He  will  upon  his  feet  alight. 

Who  could  lure  thee  but  to  tarry 

While  he  spake  a  word  with  thee, 

Take  in  a  net  thy  spirit  wary, 

Till  it  told  its  cause  of  glee  ? 

So  oft  thy  humor  veers  and  doubles, 

I  cannot  guess  thy  will  or  reason, 

Or  thrid  the  tangle  of  thy  mind, 

That,  never  seeking,  still  docs  find  ; 

Drinks  deep  through  every  tingling  nerve, 


THE  BROOK. 

And  thrills  through  each  voluptuous  curve 
With  dizzy  transports  of  the  season. 
But  when  thy  waves  are  crisped  and  curled 
Against  a  lily  or  a  pebble, 
And  all  about  thy  woodland  world 
Echoes  thy  dainty-trilling  treble, 
Or  when  with  airy  leap  and  laughter 
Thou  dancest  down  the  sloping  shelf, 
Trailing  a  hundred  ringlets  after, 
I  sometimes  catch  the  sprightly  elf, 
Who  cannot  always  hide  himself. 
A  wisdom  to  thyself,  a  gladness, 
It  well  beseems  thee  to  disdain 
The  mortal's  haughty  scope  of  sadness, 
The  griefs  that  make  our  lives  profane. 
Oh  glorious  skein  of  sunlight 
Fresh  from  the  spindle  of  love  divine, 
Thou  art  to  me  a  heavenly  sign- 
To  cheer,  ennoble,  and  invite. 
Something  within  me  strongly  pleads 
To  follow  where  thy  splendor  leads  ; 
I  cannot  doubt  the  path  is  right : 


12  THE  BROOK. 

I  give  myself  to  thee  to  guide  me, 
Be  thou  my  fate,  whate'er  betide  me. 

But  what  is  this,  and  who  is  here  ? 
What  lovely  child,  so  blithe  of  cheer  ? 
Chanced  it,  that  an  amorous  Vale, 
Nymph-like  lying  in  the  sun, 
Saw  the  fair  boy  come  a-maying 
Through  the  thickets  one  by  one, 
Hundred  flowers  stuck  in  his  belt. 
Quick  through  all  her  limbs  she  felt 
Soft  voluptuous  tremors  run. 
She,  his  careless  sport  waylaying, 
Snatched  him  up  in  eager  arms, 
In  her  fragrant  bosom  hid  him, 
Made  him  free  of  all  her  charms, 
Would  no  tender  liberty  forbid  him. 
But  no  heat  yet  spurred  the  flood 
Of  his  fresh  and  temperate  blood. 
Not  yet  the  mystic  seed  was  sown, 
As  far  as  Love  he  had  not  grown. 
With  fine  frown  and  fairy  pout 


THE  BROOK. 

Tosses  he  to  break  from  ward  ; 

More  he  wrestles  to  be  out, 

More  the  door  is  sweetly  barred. 

All  his  sighs  and  shrieks  and  hisses, 

Double-pays  she  back  in  kisses. 

If  he  coil  himself  to  spring, 

Tighter,  warmer  will  she  cling  ; 

With  her  leafy  hair  she  blinds  him, 

Mazes  him  in  its  thick  skeins, 

And  despite  his  rudest  pains, 

Well-nigh  hand  and  foot  she  binds  him. 

Failing  force,  he  beckons  wit, 

And  to  drowse  her  fierce  suspicion, 

Slowly  feigns  it  to  be  well  content 

With  her  fire  and  throbbing  blandishment. 

While  her  ardors  intermit, 

While  the  soft  gyves  bate  their  hold, 

Swift  amain  he  bursts  from  prison, 

And  with  lo  Paean  bold 

Zigzag  skirts  the  level  wold. 

When  from  Nature's  generous  stock 


!4  THE  BROOK. 

Was  fairer  blossom  born  than  this, 

Around  whom  richer  qualities 

In  sweeter  order  flock  ? 

Opulent  is  childhood's  hour  ; 

'Tis  he  alone  can  give  with  grace, 

And  he  alone  can  ask  with  power. 

To  the  arch  menace  of  his  eye 

And  his  half-imperious  ways 

Old  Nature  can  no  thing  deny, 

She  grants  him  all  he  claims  to  own  ; 

But  the  dear  smiles  that  sometime  light  his 

face, 

Bewitch  the  grandam  to  the  bone ; 
Straight  she  unlocks  her  chest  and  brings  her 

hoard, 
And  chooses  him  for  heir  of  all,  and  lord. 

And  best  it  suits  his   bounteous  heart   and 

pleasure 

To  be  royal-lavish  in  his  measure. 
Upon  waste  and  fertile  place 
He  sows  the  largess  of  his  grace. 


THE  BROOK.  j  5 

He,  the  son  of  myriad  kings, 

He,  the  heir  of  countless  lands, 

Wide  his  goodly  treasure  flings 

To  whoso  asking  stands. 

But  for  his  generous  trust  in  her, 

Nature  her  wayward  worshipper 

With  tenfold  measure  will  requite  ; 

Coins  his  harms  to  just  and  right  ; 

Reaps  from  his  dear  improvidence 

Harvests  of  large  experience  ; 

Husbands   each  squandered   farthing  of  his 

dower, 
And    brings    it    back,   changed    to    eternal 

power. 


l6  THE  BROOK. 


II. 

O  CUNNING  baby  Proteus,  cover 
Thy  discourse  with  amorous  art  : 
Aptly  canst  thou  feign  the  lover, 
And  the  sickness  of  the  heart. 

Hark,  in  the  embowered  land 

Some  courtly  knight  his  dame  is  wooing ; 

Polished  the  accents  fall  and  bland, 

Her  lily  favor  proudly  suing. 

Low  he  bows  his  lofty  state 

To  offer  up  the  burning  prayer, 

And,  like  a  broken  pomegranate, 

The  fragrant  soul  of  love  is  there. 

Now  the  multitudinous  vows 

Chase  each  other  from  his  lips, 

Thick  as  'neath  his  lady's  brows 

Gleam  the  golden-pointed  lashes, 


THE  BROOK. 

As  the  refluent  blush  that  dips 
Momently  her  cheek  in  flashes. 

Thus  the  Lily  hears  him  pray  : 
"  Quit,  O  faery  queen,  the  dryness 
Of  thy  pensive  solitude. 
Wilt  thou  but  forsake  thy  shyness 
And  take  on  another  mood, 
I  will  scoop  a  crescent  bay, 
Line  it  round  with  silk-soft  foam, 
Fan  it  with  cool-rippling  air  : 
Lo  thy  palace  and  thy  home  ! 
Torrid  beam  shall  not  impair 
The  fine  tinct  upon  thy  cheek, 
Eavesdrop  breeze  shall  never  seek 
To  report  Love's  conference  : 
And  no  thing  of  loathsome  sense, 
Eft  or  toad,  shall  on  thy  sleep 
Through  the  grassy  lattice  peep, 
Lattice  of  thy  bedchamber. 
Clearest  mirror  will  I  burnish, 
Hide  it  where  no  wave  can  stir, 


1 8  THE  BROOK. 

Where  no  prowling  dust  can  tarnish, 
No  malicious  breezes  rove, 
Heart-deep,  heart-deep  in  the  cove. 
May'st  the  livelong  rosy  morning 
At  thy  snowy  toilet  stay, 
All  thy  saintly  soul  adorning 
In  its  consecrate  array." 

But  the  Lily  nodded  nay; 
And  with  nicely  curious  care 
Pruned  and  plumed  her  petals  fair. 

Ah,  childhood's  vernal  frost  must  thaw 
In  the  warm  summer  of  a  larger  law. 
A  new  star  spheres  itself  in  view, 
Whose  beams  are  yeast  along  his  veins, 
That  throng  his  heart  with  strange  ado. 
The  surge,  the  dance,  the  pleasures  and  the 

pains, 

The  fine  alarm,  the  magic  turbulence 
Puzzle  his  thought  and  dally  with  his  sense. 
Now  his  chirp  and  frolic  sleep, 


THE  BROOK.  ! 

Twilight  vigils  will  he  keep  ; 

Slips  aside  a  meditative  thing, 

Talks  with  the  stars  and  queries  everything. 

Too  rude  a  breaking  of  the  spell, 
Fair  spirit,  this  that  thee  befell. 
As  a  colt  that  first  time  feels 
Barbs  that  arm  his  rider's  heels, 
Forth  he  bolted,  furious,  blind 
From  the  tempest  in  his  mind  ; 
Wailed  along  his  tortuous  path, 
Full  from  bank  to  bank  of  wrath  ; 
Shot  through  many  a  perilous  flume, 
Spat  his  ire  in  flakes  of  spume 
Against  the  face  of  cliff  and  tree 
That  looked  upon  his  agony. 
Playing  loosely  with  his  fate, 
Courts  his  doom  with  careless  scorn, 
In  rude  gorge  or  pool-set  strait 
Or  on  the  wild  crag's  lowered  horn. 
Last,  all  dizzy  with  despair, 
Topples  headlong  in  mid-air 


20  THE  BROOK. 

From  a  treacherous  precipice  ; 
Bitter  end  of  love  was  this. 
Gored  and  mangled  here  he  lay, 
Steaming  his  life-blood  away  ; 
Bitter  end  of  love  was  this. 

There  a  gray-beard  hermit  Glen 
Lived  his  life  recluse  from  men  ; 
Spelled  in  Nature's  secret  runes 
And  set  his  thoughts  to  holy  tunes. 
Virtues  of  every  herb  he  knew 
That  nigh  his  bosky  threshold  grew : 
No  hurts  so  deep  could  well  befall 
But  he  would  medicine  them  all. 
Kind  in  heart,  though  harsh  in  look, 
He  stood  beside  the  prostrate  Brook, 
Stooped  and  gently  gathered  him, 
Gently,  fondly,  limb  by  limb, 
Bore  him  to  a  grove  hard  by, 
Plied  his  timely  pharmacy, 
Closed  his  rents  and  stanched  his  veins, 
Set  his  limbs  and  eased  his  pains, 


THE  BROOK.  21 

And  as  beauteous  as  before 
Launched  him  from  his  coppice-door. 

Riddle  that  he  cannot  read, 

She  must  solve  that  did  propound  it ; 

From  the  fetter  must  be  freed 

By  the  finger  that  first  bound  it. 

Comes  the  maid  whose  glances  carry 

In  them  Love's  abounding  presence, 

His  foot  is  caught,  he  can  but  tarry. 

Sudden  shocks  of  vague  delight, 

Tingling  in  through  all  his  essence, 

Sting  his  mind  and  gild  his  sight. 

More  his  wit  and  courage  fail  him, 

More  he  guesses  what  must  ail  him. 

If  her  eyelids  should  uncover 

Fires  that  answer  to  his  own, 

He  moults  his  shyness  and  is  grown 

To  the  full  stature  of  a  lover. 

Can  then  with  ease  in  courtly  phrases  shine 

And  fledge  his  nimble  parle  with  wisdom  fine. 

His  lessons  may  the  sage  rehearse, 


22  THE  BROOK. 

From  him  the  poet  thieve  his  verse  ; 
Here  orators  may  learn  the  perfect  trick, 
To  bait  their  clauses  with  best  rhetoric : 
With   logic  brave  he   freights  his  speeding 

word, 
And  to  convince,  he  asks  but  to  be  heard. 

For  his  essence  was  too  fine, 
Scion  of  too  proud  a  line, 
Long  to  peak  or  deep  to  pine. 
Mixed  with  him  was  too  much  glee, 
All  too  full  of  youth  was  he, 
Ah,  too  bent  on  love,  to  be 
Prisoner  long  to  anguish  keen, 
Or  to  nurse  a  tedious  spleen. 

Again  his  bright  smile  streams  and  gushes, 

Turning  all  the  world  to  joy, 

And  with  myriad  sunny  flushes 

Does  his  cheek  and  brow  employ ; 

And  around  the  swelling  sweetness 

Of  his  lips  it  darts  and  flies, 


THE  BROOK. 

But  it  wins  its  rich  completeness 
In  the  dances  of  his  eyes. 

Stepping  from  a  murky  wood, 
The  quick  starlight  on  his  blood 
Helps  him  to  an  amorous  mood. 
But  warier  than  when  he  strove 
To  teach  the  Lily  thoughts  of  love, 
In  the  elbow  of  a  shelf 
Stops  to  groom  and  deck  himself; 
Taxing  his  wit  to  trim  him  gallantly, 
In  hope  a  faultless  lover  now  to  be. 
Planning  to  be  proudlier  dressed, 
Here  he  slips  his  woodland  vest, 
Mottled  thick  with  flecks  of  shade, 
And  showing  down  its  silver  seams 
Rents  the  envious  rocks  had  made. 
Wrought  of  ambers  he  loves  best, 
Now  a  burnished  jerkin  gleams 
Bubble-buttoned  on  his  breast ; 
Broideries  of  starry  beams 
Down  its  bosom  shoot  and  twirl, 


24  THE  BROOK. 

Laces  spun  of  spotless  foam 
Wayward  round  its  margent  roam  : 
Tis  in  sooth  no  vulgar  churl. 
Balanced  here  betwixt  the  rocks, 
Now  he  combs  and  sleeks  his  locks, 
Sidewise  parted  on  his  head  ; 
Locks  in  many  a  rippling  curl 
Down  about  his  shoulders  shed. 
Then  as  softly  forth  he  flows, 
Dons  his  pebble-tinted  hose  ; 
Seated  on  an  eddy's  whirl, 
Buckles  on  his  shoes  of  pearl ; 
Then  to  horse  !  and  well-a-way  ! 
Backed  upon  a  current  brown, 
Ambles  forth  by  grange  and  town, 
Singing  to  right  and  left  his  roundelay 
Oho,  was  never  seen  a  sight  so  gay. 

Maids,  that  yet  refuse  to  love, 
Close  the  lattice  now  and  shove 
Deep  the  bolt  along  the  groove. 
Maids,  that  wait  for  Hymen's  torch, 


THE  BROOK. 

Hasten  to  the  lamp-lit  porch  : 
Let  the  beaming  cestus  rest 
Soft  below  the  heaving  breast ; 
Gorgelet,  wristlet,  let  them  shine, 
On  their  snowy  pillows  sleeping, 
And  the  satined  slipper  fine, 
Coyly  from  its  ambush  peeping. 
For  a- lover  rides  your  way, 
Will  make  ye  grave  or  make  ye  gay. 
Lo  he  comes,  Love's  throbbing  star, 
Heart  to  make  or  heart  to  mar  ; 
And  his  lips,  Love's  perfect  bow, 
Shoot  words  that  kindle  as  they  go. 

What  sombre  pile  is  this  we  see 
In  the  moonlight  standing  hoary, 
So  gaunt,  so  stern,  it  well  might  be 
Famed  in  antique  song  or  story  ? 
Round  its  towers  the  darkling  vine 
Clambering  coils  her  leafy  spire  ; 
Above  it  the  primeval  pine 
Sweeps  his  memory-burthened  lyre, 


26  THE  BROOK. 

That  still  repeats  the  lofty  strophes  learned 

When  first  the  felloe  of  the  heaven  was  turned 

'Tis  the  abbey  of  the  vale  : 

Save  the  meek  foot  of  contrition, 

Naught  can  pass  its  sacred  pale, 

Or  the  snowy-plumed  petition 

'Scaping  on  its  starry  mission. 

Here  a  band  of  Roses  pray 

To  High  God  by  night  and  day. 

These,  a  spotless  sisterhood, 

Sweetly  cloistered,  live  and  brood 

On  the  glories  of  their  Lord 

And  the  promise  of  His  Word. 

From  an  oriel  in  the  green 

One,  the  fairest,  chanced  to  lean, 

All  her  maiden  bosom  bare, 

Forth  upon  the  starlight  air. 

Lost  in  thoughts  of  piety, 

Here  she  told  her  rosary, 

Dewy  beads,  right  out  of  heaven  sent, 

To  grace  her  holiness  and  pure  intent. 


THE  BROOK.  2 

Spying  her,  Love's  eager  hunter 
Thither  spurred  his  course  enamored. 
As  he  galloped  to  confront  her, 
Merrily,  merrily  down  the  night 
The  thin  hoof  of  his  jennet  clamored. 
Better  to  bewitch  her  sight, 
Lightly  proves  his  gay  manege  : 
No  Parthian  or  Numidian  feat 
But  he  the  wonder  could  repeat  : 
Pricks  his  steed  to  headlong  rage, 
Then  with  deftly  fingered  snaffle 
Will  his  foamy  urgence  baffle. 
Shifting  aye  his  limber  pace, 
Curvette,  pirouette,  capriole,  caracole, 
Down  he  sweeps  with  gallant  grace. 
So  bold  a  rider,  a  form  so  fair — 
What  marvel  the  maid  should  midway  stop 
In  her  maze  of  Aves,  and  let  drop 
The  golden  filament  of  her  prayer  ! 

Thus  he  frames  his  cunning  plea : 
' '  Well  love  I  the  hopes  that  gladden 


28  THE  BROOK. 

Hearts  that  stagger,  sorrow-laden  : 

Dear  the  fount  whose  lustral  rain 

Purges  off  the  worldly  stain  : 

Sweet  the  gloom  of  holy  cell, 

And  christened  fancies  that  there  dwell 

Yet  one  thing  hateful  is  to  me, 

The  pride  of  perfect  piety. 

Sweeter  than  thy  miserere, 

Joy  whose  warblings  never  weary  ; 

Wiser  than  thy  credos  old, 

Faith  that  never  has  been  told  ; 

Chaster  than  thy  barren  vows 

Warm  thick  oaths  that  Hymen  knows  ; 

And  holy  as  thy  frigid  rites 

Love's  hallowed  days  and  fervid  nights. 

Shafts  thou  wouldst  seal  up  in  quiver, 

Love  has  thieved  and  shoots  at  me  ; 

Hurts  they  scatter  can  be  never 

Wholly  salved  unless  by  thee. 

Maiden,  bate  thy  virgin  edge 

And  accept  Love's  privilege. 

What  the  kindly  Life  permits  us, 


THE  BROOK.  29 

Well  to  welcome,  best  befits  us. 

World  is  ours,  let  us  not  slight  it ; 

Dark,  we  have  Love's  lamp  to  light  it, 

Cold,  Love's  hearth  is  good  to  warm  it, 

Evil,  .Love  can  best  reform  it. 

Come,  within  my  bosom  nestle, 

While  with  stubborn  things  I  wrestle. 

Every  thrust  of  mortal  harm 

Will  I  parry  with  sure  arm. 

Year  may  wax  and  year  may  wane, 

We  will  scud  the  flowery  plain, 

Above,  the  skyey  flag  unfurled, 

Around,  the  softly  murmuring  world, 

To  the  land  that  Love  likes  best, 

And  bowers  where  he  makes  his  rest. 

There  to  thy  divine  Ideal 

Will  we  rhyme  our  Hymeneal : 

Heaven,  whose  sweets  thou  pin'st  to  prove, 

Will  grow  round  us  while  we  move  ; 

God  thou  findest  now  so  fair, 

We  will  meet  him  everywhere." 


30  THE  BROOK. 

The  sweet  Rose  sadly  shakes  her  head, 
Shakes  her  head,  and  with  a  sigh 
Thinks  of  Him  that  for  her  bled  ; 
And  with  rapt  and  earnest  eye 
Points  her  finger  up  on  high. 
A  zephyr  ferries  to  his  ear 
The  soft  freight  of  her  whisper  clear, 
"  My  bridegroom  lives  above  the  sky." 

Still  and  deep,  his  bitter  sorrow 
Could  no  help  from  anger  borrow. 
Slow  dismounts  and  steals  with  heavy  foot 
Where  the  mud-bound  osiers  thickest  shoot 
Hoary  wood  and  solemn  shadow 
Strive  to  lull  his  aching  blood ; 
But  no  balm  could  stanch  his  mood 
Or  suck  the  low  threne  from  his  strain, 
Till  his  sister,  the  green  Meadow, 
Laughing,  caught  him  to  her  breast, 
Laughing,  soothed  him  and  caressed, 
Soothed,  caressed,  and  charmed  his  pain. 


THE  BROOK.  3! 

My  darling  pet,  what  heart  can  chide 
Thy  elfin  angers,  thy  wayward  pride  ? 
Wrought  of  tuneful  impulses, 
Dainty  shocks  and  fairy  sallies, 
Who  can  fathom  or  express 
This  quaint  soul  that  with  thee  dallies  ? 
To  repel  or  to  caress 
Swift  as  light  and  sure  as  thought ; 
Rich  in  weird  and  golden  chances, 
Born  of  protean  phantasy, 
Rich  in  blithe  or  solemn  dances, 
Such  as  never  yet  were  taught 
In  choric  chant  or  mystery, 
Round  thy  stirring  lips  the  air 
Leaps  and  thrills  with  melody, 
Round  thy  feet  the  meadows  wear 
Flowery  vests  of  light  and  glee. 

Lightened  of  his  load  of  woes, 
To  the  homely  Spearmint  flows  ; 
Whispers  in  low  silver  tone, 
Suited  to  love-theme  alone, 


32  THE  BROOK. 

"  O  sweet  lady,  lowlier  bend, 

Till  with  warm  and  foamy  lips 

One  rich  kiss  of  Love  I  send 

Glowing  to  thy  purple  tips." 

Then  with  amorous  fervency, 

And  a  gush  of  piteous  sighs, 

Up  he  flung  the  brilliancy, 

Of  his  wild  and  ardent  eyes, 

And  with  amber-veined  arms 

Would  have  clasped  her  drooping  charms. 

So  impetuous  is  his  suit, 

That  soul  of  fragrance  listens  to  't, 

Pities  his  heart-wrung  distress, 

Loves  his  valor  and  his  grace  ; 

Comes  and  kneels  and  fondly  tips 

The  pale  sorrow  of  his  face 

With  her  incense-breathing  lips, 

And  returns  his  warm  embrace. 

He  with  passionate  intent 

Pauses  there  his  glittering  trail, 

Sips  the  odorous  freightage  sent 

Under  convoy  of  the  gale, 


THE  BROOK.  33 

Till  their  hearts  were  wholly  mingled, 
Each  the  truth  of  each  did  prove. 
"  From  all  flowers  have  I  singled 
Thee  to  be  my  queen  of  Love," 
Sang  the  glad  contented  Brook, 
As  his  shining  curls  he  shook 
And  down  the  vale  his  saunter  took. 

Whatever  Beauty  has  of  power, 
Of  favorite  law  or  fond  creation, 
Supplies  unto  thee  hour  by  hour 
The  grace  and  spirit  of  thy  fashion. 
And  I  count  it  not  a  blame 
That  thou  never  art  the  same. 
Let  the  world  not  suck  the  hues 
From  the  iris  of  thy  soul, 
Put  to  meaner  forms  of  use 
Elements  so  dear  as  these, 
Unsettle  from  their  native  pole 
Thy  revolving  sympathies. 

Who  so  kingly  in  his  giving, 
3 


34  THE  BROOK. 

As  who  gives  with  lover's  hand  ? 

Spending  more,  the  more  receiving, 

And  by  loss  his  fortunes  stand. 

He  will  melt  his  sceptre  down 

In  brooches  for  the  maid  he  loves, 

Pluck  the  jewels  from  his  crown 

To  trim  her  bosom  as  behooves, 

Quarry  will  his  very  throne 

To  pave  her  journey  when  she  moves 

Having  Love,  can  spare  the  rest : 

Whoso  loves,  is  at  his  best. 


THE  BROOK. 


35 


III. 

HAVE  ye  seen  upon  the  steep 
The  young  minstrel  wifh  his  lyre  ? 
He  can  teach  to  laugh  or  weep, 
He  can  kindle  thoughts  of  fire. 
In  his  cap  white  plumes  of  mist, 
By  cool  matin  breathings  kissed, 
Jauntily  hither  and  thither  play. 
Loosely  round  his  shoulders  thrown, 
Hangs  his  cloak  of  glittering  spray, 
'Twixt  whose  folds,  asunder  blown, 
In  faint  shy  colors  may  be  traced 
The  belt  of  iris,  whose  light  zone 
Sleeps  upon  his  slender  waist. 
Over  him  the  monstrous  clifts 
Into  battlement  and  tower 
Each  his  savage  height  uplifts. 
Here  some  fallen  antique  power, 


36  THE- BROOK. 

Exile  from  Heaven's  supremacy, 

Nurses  Olympian  phantasy ; 

Will  with  sombre  grandeur  keep 

Show  of  primal  dignity. 

He,  of  midnight  soul  deform, 

Evil,  desolate  and  gaunt, 

Clothed  with  thunder  and  with  storm, 

Loves  the  rocky  waste  to  haunt. 

Him  the  Brook  with  music  strong 

Hopes  to  charm  by  power  of  song, 

To  lure  his  presence  from  its  lair 

And  memories  that  feed  despair." 

Now  in  wild  fantastic  gushes 

Round  his  clarion  tones  he  throws, 

Now  in  soft  melodious  hushes 

Deep  and  still  his  passion  flows  : 

Now,  a  rhapsodist  inspired,         • 

He  chants  in  lofty  epic  measure 

Of  martial  heroes,  glory-fired, 

Of  Battle's  pomp  and  shock  and  seizure. 

When  this  stately  mood  does  ebb, 

Warbles  he,  a  tender  lyrist, 


THE  BROOK. 

Finely  spins  a  golden  web 
Of  the  fancies  that  lie  nearest ; 
Sprightly  ditties,  elegies 
Of  slow-thoughted  melancholy ; 
Trills  a  lark  in  summer  skies, 
Or  becomes  a  cuckoo  wholly. 

But  no  rhythmic  force  sublime, 

Subtlest  feats  of  harmony, 

To  that  gloomy  soul  can  climb 

Or  entice  his  amity. 

Dark  and  sullen  stands  he  ever, 

Wrapt  in  glaring  desolation, 

His  hard  forehead  changing  never- 

Its  supreme  unbending  station  ; 

But  the  adamantine  scorn 

Wrinkles  there  from  morn  to  morn. 

In  fierce  farewell  the  angry  brook 
With  arms  of  spume  defiance  shook  ; 
Flung  high  his  lyre,  that  murmured  still, 
Against  the  frowning  of  the  hill, 


37 


^>8  THE  BROOK. 

o 

And  in  a  dark-stemmed  hazel  glade 
Sheathed  his  straight  and  gleaming  blade. 

Knows  the  Bard  by  love,  by  love, 
What  his  hands  shall  stir  to  fashion, 
Swoops  around  it,  broods  above, 
Handles  it  with  plastic  passion  : 
Pours  the  marrow  of  his  mind 
Through  the  thing  he  would  create  ; 
May  be  little,  may  be  great, 
Must  be  perfect  in  its  kind. 

When  Love  comes  piping  up  the  road, 

The  Muse,  know  well,  lags  just  behind  ; 

The  blithe  eyes  of  the  merry  god 

Roll  rhythmic  billows  through  the  mind. 

He  in  whose  soul  the  gods  have  planned 

The  holy  kernel  of  sweet  song, 

Must  strive  and  strive,  till  he  has  chanted 

The  numbers  that  to  him  belong. 

At  first,  a  very  babe  in  verse, 

He  totters  through  his  timid  line  ; 


THE  BROOK.  39 

Some  homely  things  he  may  rehearse, 

Some  awkward  syllables  combine. 

Older,  he  flies  a  ballad  light 

Upon  the  breeze  of  sweet  romance  ; 

Heroic  things  his  heart  entrance  ; 

His  phrases  clash  as  knight  with  knight 

His  metres  gallop  to  the  fight. 

Anon  he  roves,  a  hunter  bold, 

Up  and  down  by  wood  and  wold, 

The  bow  of  fancy  strives  to  tame, 

And  all  things  are  his  game  : 

Or  the  proud  falcon  of  his  song 

Dismisses  on  his  forage  airy, 

Where,  circling  slow  on  pinions  strong, 

Beauty  sails,  the  perfect  quarry. 

Works  anew  the  fiery  leaven  : 

Now  a  warrior  brave  and  liege, 

The  gods  themselves  'scape  not  his  siege. 

Against  the  sapphire  walls  of  heaven 

He  sets  the  ladder  of  his  rhyme, 

And  lightly  mounts,  intent  to. climb 

As  far  as  to  the  starry  chime. 


40 


THE  BROOK. 


The  eastern  gable  of  the  sky 
Trickled  with  crimson  down  its  tiles, 
And  wraith-like  down  the  cloudy  aisles 
The  moon  slipped  from  the  morning's  eye 
And  the  dear  bird  that  daily  laves 
His  coat  in  saffron  matin  waves, 
Up  and  down,  at  random  whiles, 
Began  to  build  his  proper  note, 
Angling  by  chance  a  mimic  trill 
Out  of  clear  brook  from  alien  throat. 
Just  where  a  virginal  fair  hill 
Gathered  the  selvedge  of  her  gown 
From  marsh-sunk  meads,  I  paused  to  fill 
My  soul  with  sweetness  that  fell  down 
From  the  regarmented  pure  skies. 
Lo  from  the  hillock's  dewy  crown 
He  hastened,  carrying  in  his  eyes 
All  the  bright  dawn  ;  a  bounteous  store 
Of  hopes  and  golden  auguries. 
Their  lordly  valors  ran  before, 
.Making  the  world  smooth  for  the  way 
Of  this  child-seeming  conqueror. 


THE  BROOK. 

Me  sees  he  not :  his  glances  play 
About  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
And  in  them  sweetly  stand  at  bay 
Such  stars  as  never  yet  were  born 
On  any  sky,  and  from  them  stream 
Soft  rays  of  beauty,  swift  rays  of  scorn. 
As  one  a  fountain's  silver  gleam 
May  shiver  with  a  pebbly  bead, 
So  on  his  rapt  translucent  dream 
Fell  my  rude  words  : 

"  What  strenuous  need 
Sets  thus  on  fire  thy  agile  pace  ? 
Pray  curb  the  proud  pomp  of  thy  speed, 
Fair  Brook,  and  bait  thy  limbs  a  space, 
And  teach  me  of  thy  'courtesy 
What  thing  of  grandeur  or  of  grace 
Tows  thee  in  its  bright  wake  ?  " 

And  he 

Drew  in  the  scouts  of  his  wild  eyes 
From  heaven's  sapphire  bastionry, 
Saying,  "  A  plume  of  splendor  flies 
Ever  before  me  ;  in  its  beams 


42  THE  BROOK. 

The  clear  chart  of  my  footing  lies." 

But  when  I  strove  with  banter  rude 

To  prick  the  bubble  of  his  mood, 

Saying,  "  No  gracious  thing  it  seems, 

That  one  awake  should  still  pursue 

The  flying  feet  of  his  own  dreams," 

With  scorn  his  ripples  flashed  and  curled, 

As  back  my  trivial  taunt  he  hurled  : 

"  The  rabble  blows  its  trump  through  you. 

The  man  that  marries  his  own  tongue, 

That  should  be  troth-plight  to  the  True 

And  ever  noble,  chaste  and  young, 

To  stale  spent  words  that  haunt  the  street, 

He  does  himself  eternal  wrong. 

Get  sight  of  it :  once  seen,  'tis  sweet." 

Therewith  he  turned  his  splendid  head, 

And  stirred  the  rudder  in  his  feet 

For  passage.     But  I  straightway  said, 

"  These  words  were  hatched  upon  the  lip, 

No  deeper :  I  too  have  been  led 

By  such  light  films,  too  fine  to  trip 

A  gnat's  foot.     Prithee,  gentle  elf, 


THE  BROOK.  43 

Sing  me  some  history  of  thyself : 

To    greet    with    friendly    speech     behooves 

thee, 
Every  soul  that  wholly  loves  thee." 

Just  then  the  Morning's  ruddy  palm 

Began  to  smooth  his  ringlets  bright, 

To  lay  his  sudden  heat,  and  calm 

His  quickened  veins  in  baths  of  light. 

Anon  he  swept  his  hand  across 

The  crystal  sinews  of  his  lyre, 

Set  their  chime  to  rhythmic  laws 

And  tamed  their  wayward  fire. 

As  round  some  warrior,  that  comes  back 

From  toilsome  wars  with  pomp  and  glory, 

The  people  flock,  and  clog  his  track 

And  whisper  his  proud  story, 

So  thick  the  varied  numbers  throng  : 

All  young  and  lovely  forms  of  sound 

In  quick  procession  gather  round, 

As  with  sweet  proemial  pauses, 

In  rich  frequence  of  melodious  clauses, 


44  THE  BROOK. 

He  moves  in  triumph  brave  along 
Towards  the  stately  arch  of  song. 

Through  his  million  veins  are  poured 

The  splendors  of  the  heaven  whence  he  fell. 

Wise  above  his  thought  is  he  : 

Deep  things  he  has  to  tell 

To  such  as  with  a  swift  dexterity 

Can  aptly  gloss  his  tangled  word. 

To  an  eternal  song  he  frames  his  dance, 

And  urges  his  advance 

Through  numbers,  motions  intricately  woven. 

No  pedant's  eye  avails  to  scan 

The  tumult  of  his  foaming  line, 

Whose  music  owns  a  rule  divine 

To  ears  that  once  have  caught  the  plan. 

His  notes  so  delicate  and  fine 

My  rudely  fingered  stop  would  crumble  ; 

Only  some  easier  tones  I  twine 

To  wreathe  my  homely  line. 

But,  ah,  the  strength,  the  scope,  the  vision, 

The  naive  detour,  the  cadence  sweet, 


THE  BROOK.  45 

What  bard  could  in  his  rhyme  imprison, 
Or  bind  with  a  melodious  fetter 
The  prance  of  these  fine  feet ! 

"  Whence  I  come  or  whither  I  go, 
I  little  question,  for  well  I  know. 
What  I  am,  'tis  joy  to  be ; 
Laughter  is  my  vesture, 
And  a  god  of  revelry 
Beckons  in  my  gesture. 
I  love  my  proper  daemon  well  ; 
Summons  he,  I  haste  to  follow 
Through  balmy  grove  or  grassy  dell 
Or  mountain's  tempest-haunted  hollow. 

"  Only  to  the  sober  eye 

The  gods  withdraw  the  curtains  of  the  sky. 

Pressed  from  an  immortal  vine, 

Temperance  is  eternal  wine. 

Who  drinks  my  liquors  chaste  and  cool 

May  slight  the  Heliconian  pool  : 

He  has  no  need  to  steal  a  sip 


46  THE  BROOK. 

From  Hafiz'  bowl,  or  bathe  his  lip 
In  honey  pressed  from  Pindar's  comb, 
Or  taste  of  Bacchus'  philtered  foam, 
Or  filch  from  Chaucer's  bounteous  grace 
Some  liquid,  limpid,  purling  phrase. 
He  shall  take  with  heavenly  sleight 
In  springe  of  couchant  rhyme 
The  holy  syllables,  that  in  their  flight 
Skim  the  meads  of  Time, 
And  sometimes  tarry  for  a  night. 
Lark-like  they  warble  sweet  and  clear 
Up  and  down  the  bustling  sphere  ; 
Happy  he  that  skills  to  hear 
Their  feathery  oarage  light. 

"  Wide  waves  the  harvest  of  sweet  song, 
Long  since  the  gods  have  sown  the  seed  : 
Thither  a  thousand  reapers  throng, 
But  since  the  flinty  stalks  grow  strong 
Their  sickles  clip  the  easier  weed. 
Strives  one  with  sweat  and  sober  heed 
And  limbs  that  ache  and  hands  that  bleed 


THE  BROOK.  47 

To  sheave  some  score  of  stems, 

The  dear  wise  world,  that  loves  the  weed, 

His  heavenly  task  condemns. 

"I  know  ye  folk  of  birth  and  death, 

And  of  what  troublous  stuff  is  spun  , 

The  feeble  tissue  of  your  breath. 

I  know  your  fashions  every  one  ; 

Your  gait  and  features  smooth  or  grim, 

From  him  that  wakes  a  raw  papoose 

To  him  whose  tongue  his  parents  loose 

With  babbling  of  a  Christian  hymn. 

Well  I  know  the  woman's  wail, 

Who  comes,  like  bird  from  forage-quest 

With  loaded  bill  unto  her  nest, 

And  finds  her  tender  chitlings  dead  : 

What  beak  hath  brought  ye  death  instead  ? 

Sorrowful  numbers  flock  around, 

Earth-born  ditties  full  of  tears, 

The  loss,  the  cross,  the  myriad  fears 

That  sting  and  madden  and  confound. 

Ye  call  the  law  of  your  own  fate 


48  THE  BROOK. 

Rough  to  the  feet,  unfriendly,  cold, 
But  if  the  heart  be  free  and  bold, 
It  turns  to  beautiful  and  great. 
Come  forth  and  love  it,  and  'tis  thine, 
Works  like  a  strong  man  by  thy  side  ; 
But  dodge  or  weep  or  fall  supine 
Or  take  a  lesser  thought  for  guide, 
The  pebble  of  the  rill 
Has  power  to  kill. 


' '  For  my  frolic  lyre  refuses 

Fellowship  of  moping  muses. 

Touched  by  a  single  note  of  pain, 

His  simple  chords  would  crack  atwain. 

He  to  Heaven  is  strongly  sworn 

To  sound  the  hymns  of  utmost  joy 

And  things  of  joyance  born  ; 

Pledged  to  a  large  exulting  song, 

To  which  no  sombre  tones  belong, 

That,  riding  high  above  man's  narrow  state," 

Perfect  and  full  and  beyond  sweetness  sweet, 


THE  BROOK.  49 

Teaches  the  maiden  stars  their  heavenly  gait 
And  those  soft  flashings  of  their  silver  feet. 

"  In  Beauty's  light  forever, 

In  Beauty's  living  light  I  rove. 

Through  darkling  gorge,  on  open  heather, 

Be  it  fair  or  windy  weather, 

Surest  guide  and  amplest  giver, 

Evermore  she  shines  above. 

Never  yet  has  she  forsaken 

The  child  once  to  her  bosom  taken  ; 

But  as  the  hen-dove,  brooding,  covers 

The  chirp  and  flutter  of  her  young, 

With  warm  resplendent  wing  she  hovers 

O'er  those  that  to  her  fold  belong. 

From  her  dear  breasts  the  milk  I  draw 

That  feeds  me  with  eternal  youth  : 

She  is  the  spirit  of  my  shifting  law, 

The  gage  and  warrant  of  my  truth. 

She  is  the  musical  blood  of  my  song, 

The  sensitive  marrow  of  my  note  ; 

She  shaped  the  syllables  for  my  tongue, 


50  THE  BROOK. 

She  spun  the  allegro  in  my  throat. 

She  kneaded  and  fashioned  and  burnished  my 

limbs, 

Not  to  be  wounded  by  aught  that  impinges, 
And,  subtler  than  fins  of  a  fish  that  swims, 
She  hid  in  my  joints  their  mystical  hinges, 
And  taught  me  my  ever  unwinding  pace, 
Fresh  and  capricious  and  fertile  in  grace. 


"  Engarmented  in  her  own  splendor, 

With  severe  and  orderly  motions 

Stilly  charioted, 

Myriad  lures  and  charms  attend  her, 

And  the  slumbering  azure  oceans 

Boil  and  foam  to  her  spiritous  tread. 

With  sweet  ineffable  laughter, 

With  cunning  resistless  beckonings, 

With  musical  coercive  reasons, 

Wooing,  persuading,  seducing,  enchanting, 

She  draws  the  hoary  firmaments  after, 

Set  to  wondrous  tunes  and  perfect  seasons. 


THE  BROOK.  5  r 

With  bounding  eagerness  and  breathless  pant 
ing 

The  fair  young  Suns  leap  forth  in  her  wake 
From  the  thick  abysses  of  night, 
And  passionately  palpitating, 
Haste  the  virgin  Moons  with  bosoms  bare, 
From  their  half  unfilleted  hair 
Shaking  the  pale  white  blossoms  of  light. 

<(  Likewise  for  me  she  brims 

A  bowl  of  her  liquor  divine  ; 

The  arches  of  my  limbs 

Are  drunken  with  the  wine  ; 

Round  the  curves  of  my  feet  and  thighs 

The  liquid  madness  flies. 

Through  and  through  with  her  barm  am  I 

lightened, 
In  and  out  with  her  glory  brightened." 


52  THE  BROOK. 


IV. 

ALONG  the  eastern  border  gray 
The  night  holds  skirmish  with  the  dawn, 
And  that  strong  star,  whose  fearless  ray 
Closest  scouts  the  marching  Day, 
Has  slowly  from  his  watch  withdrawn, 
And  many  a  far-flung  crimson  spear 
Quivers  in  the  cloudlet's  breast, 
As  o'er  the  margin  of  the  sphere 
Lifts  the  Morn  his  haughty  crest  ; 
And  wide  and  near  the  lazy  land 
Fumbles  with  slumber's  easy  band, 
While  drowsy  sounds  in  wood  and  field 
From  dreaming  throats  are  faintly  pealed. 
Starts  the  nigh-belated  swain, 
As  the  prying  ruddy  beam 
Cuts  the  tendrils  of  the  dream 
That  tightly  hugs  his  heavy  brain. 


THE  BROOK.  53 

The  smoke  climbs  upward  through  the  thatch, 

The  housewife  lifts  the  early  latch, 

And  standing  on  the  door-sill  sees 

The  thick  dews  winking  in  the  trees, 

What  time  the  flapping  chanticleer 

Winds  afar  his  horn  of  cheer, 

And  every  bird  of  blithesome  note 

Fingers  light  his  woodland  oat ; 

And  the  herdsman's  whistle  shrill 

Stirs  the  laughter  of  the  hill, 

As  through  the  meadowy  mists  he  strides  ; 

Issuing  from  whose  purpled  tides 

Towards  the  grange  the  sleepy  kine 

Reluctant  trail  their  straggling  line, 

Whose  burthened  udders,  as  they  pass, 

Spill  their  rich  streams  on  the  grass : 

And  swinging  light  in  either  hand 

The  cedarn  pail  with  well-scoured  band, 

The  maid  hies  briskly  down  the  lawn 

With  gathered  sleeve  and  skirt  updrawn, 

And  loose  braids  'scaping  from  her  hood, 

Carolling  in  her  matin  mood 


54  THE  BROOK. 

Some  silly  stave  too  weak  to  hear 

But  for  its  honest  heart  of  cheer ; 

Since  in  her  breast,  as  everywhere, 

Is  manifold  delight  to  spare. 

Anon  the  yoke's  laborious  beam 

Is  locked  upon  the  broad-necked  team, 

The  farm-lad  cracks  his  wanton  thong, 

The  huge  wain  lumbers  loud  along, 

Where  the  clustered  haycocks  steam 

In  the  morning's  simmering  beam, 

And  striding  heart-deep  in  the  math 

The  mower  lays  the  dewy  swath, 

Or  rings  with  bantering  rifle  clear 

A  challenge  to  his  stanch  compeer. 

And  everywhere  the  human  hand 

Reaches  for  its  proper  tool  ; 

Since  those  whom  Nature  puts  to  school 

Learn  the  rough  eternal  rule, 

Who  best  can  work,  he  shall  command. 

But  fairest  of  the  laboring  throng 
Is  he  that  feeds  my  feeble  song. 


THE  BROOK.  55 

Bouncing  from  his  pallet  spread 
Among  the  roots  of  fragrant  larches, 
Now  he  shows  his  welcome  head 
Through  the  forest's  leafy  arches. 
Shalt  not  alway  frisk  and  carol, 
Must  be  harnessed  with  the  rest, 
And  put  off  thy  gay  apparel 
For  a  homely  work-day  vest. 

Love-time  is  over,  and  too  long 

The  muse  has  dipped  on  wayward  wing, 

Henceforth  the  lyre  must  freight  its  string 

With  burdens  of  a  graver  song. 

Since  from  every  earth-born  soul 

Fate  severe  exacts  his  toll. 

A  yoke  sits  on  the  sunbeam's  neck, 

The  moth  finds  chores  about  the  field, 

The  zephyr  tugs  his  sightless  trace, 

Fairest  things  must  service  yield. 

Garbed  in  modest  homespun  suit, 
Stiched  of  lilies'  dappled  leaves, 


56  THE  BROOK. 

From  the  busket's  dewy  eaves 
He  hastes  with  serious  mien  and  mute, 
And  that  sweet  feature  of  content, 
Labor's  richest  ornament. 

Towering  past  the  jutting  hill, 
Stands  the  huge  meal-whitened  mill, 
Asleep  through  all  the  maze  of  art 
Coiled  within  its  cumbrous  heart. 
Now  unto  his  task  he  springs  ; 
Against  the  stubborn  wheel  he  flings 
His  shining  strength,  and  dares  to  seize 
The  mighty  felloes  in  his  hands  ; 
Against  the:  paddles'  massy  bands 
Firmly  plants  his  stalwart  knees. 
His  muscles  swell,  his  breast  expands, 
He  bows,  he  tugs,  he  heaves  amain 
With  one  prolonged  resistless  strain  : 
Straightway  the  moaning  monster  knows 
The  haughty  master  he  must  serve, 
And  quivering  with  reluctant  throes 
Swings  upon  his  sluggish  curve. 


THE  BROOK. 

The  wakened  mill  is  all  astir 

With  creak  and  shriek  and  whiz  and  whirr, 

The  leathern  band  begins  to  move 

Down  the  pulley's  slippery  groove  ; 

The  thick  cogs  sink  their  fangs  of  steel 

In  the  sockets  of  the  wheel ; 

And  swiftly  turns  with  muffled  moan 

The  upper  on  the  nether  stone. 

Pacing  round  the  mealy  floor, 

And  watching  through  the  rush  and  roar 

The  perfect  play  of  every  part, 

The  Miller  gladdens  in  his  heart ; 

His  eyes  with  happy  lustres  twinkle, 

He  laughs  through  every  dusty  wrinkle. 

Spirit,  my  fancies  wild  and  crude, 
Too  lamely  hint  the  thing  thou  art ; 
All  images  are  over-rude 
To  shadow  thy  mysterious  heart. 
Yet  I  through  many  forms  of  being 
Intent  to  find  the  steadfast  soul, 
Catch  often  type  with  type  agreeing 


57 


58  THE  BROOK. 

To  point  to  one  unchanging  goal, 
Find  faintly  mirrored  in  a  part 
The  features  of  the  perfect  Whole. 

Though  flitting  thus  from  mood  to  mood, 

None  dare  name  thee  false  or  slight, 

For  one  divine  similitude 

Pervades  each  frolic  form  and  gesture, 

One  beauteous  soul  of  love  and  light 

Peeps  quaintly  through  the  changing  vesture. 

Simple  art  thou,  candid,  clear, 

And  what  the  inmost  heart  intends 

Does  in  the  noble  eyes  appear, 

And  with  thy  merriest  motion  blends 

A  kind  of  reverence  and  fear. 

Albeit  thy  wanderings  are  far, 

And  thy  mazes  Gordian-twined, 

Thou  canst  never  fail  nor  err 

From  the  fixed  counsel  of  thy  mind. 

Since  beneath  thy  crystal  scales 

Lives  the  spirit  of  all  beauty, 

And  through  all  thy  change  prevails 


THE  BROOK. 

The  one  golden  law  of  duty. 
So  while  life  deepens  in  his  strain, 
Confide  in  what  the  Spirit  sends, 
Sure  pilot  he,  through  loss  and  pain, 
To  happy  havens,  glorious  ends. 
Fare  thec  beautifully  ever, 
Wayward  child  of  mystic  motion, 
Till  thou  touch  some  greater  river 
And  the  pulses  of  the  ocean. 


59 


60  THE  BROOK. 


V. 


WHO  yonder  turns  his  furrowed  face, 
Priest-like,  and  clothed  with  priestly  grace, 
Towards  the  sunset's  fading  rays  ? 
The  peaceful  heart,  the  faith  serene 
Shine  in  his  venerable  mien. 
Benign,  a  gracious  thing  to  greet, 
His  white  beard  flowing  to  his  feet, 
Here  he  stands  at  close  of  day, 
And  sheds  an  affluent  benediction 
On  every  soul  that  comes  his  way. 
Up  to  his  knees  a  monstrous  bowlder, 
That  erewhile  roughly  charioted 
Some  Titan  glacier  from  his  polar  bed, 
Thrusts  amain  a  swarthy  shoulder 
Midst  the  myriad-eddying  foam. 
This  is  his  altar  :  here  he  pours 
His  solemn  vesper  sacrifice, 


THE  BROOK.  6Z 

And  with  full  voice  adores 
Eternal  Truth,  eternal  Beauty, 
Eternal  Love  beyond  the  skies. 
All  pastoral  forms,  both  rude  and  fair, 
Flock  up  the  sacred  rite  to  share. 
The  maiden  brakes,  in  linked  band, 
Crowned  with  flowery  fillets  stand  : 
Comes  every  tree  of  stalwart  limb, 
And  every  trunk  of  aged  bough  ; 
And  many  a  crag  of  feature  grim 
Lowly  bends  his  dusky  brow  ; 
And  ruddy  knolls  in  tumbled  throng, 
Grouped  about  the  meadowy  plain, 
Repeat  the  sacred  evening  song 
From  dell  to  dell  in  soft  refrain. 
He  is  their  organ,  he  their  voice, 
Through  him  they  grieve,  through  him  re 
joice  ; 

Himself  the  anthem  that  adores, 
Himself  the  offering  that  he  pours, 
Himself  the  incense  that  arises, 
And  the  strong  prayer  that  heaven  surprises. 


62  THE  BROOK 

The  year  moves  to  its  sad  decline, 
A  dull  gray  mist  enfolds  the  hills, 
The  flowers  are  dead,  the  thickets  pine, 
In  other  lands  the  swallow  trills  ; 
For  since  they  stole  his  summer  flute, 
The  moping  Pan  sits  stark  and  mute ; 
The  slow  hooves  of  the  feeding  kine 
Crack  the  herbage  as  they  pass, 
The  apples  glimmer  in  the  grass. 
And  woods  are  yellow,  woods  are  brown, 
The  vine  about  the  elm  is  red, 
Crow  and  hawk  fly  up  and  down, 
But  for  the  wood-thrush,  he  is  dead ; 
The  ox  forsakes  the  chilly  shadow, 
Only  the  cricket  haunts  the  meadow. 

The  feast  is  ending,  the  guests  are  going, 
In  bands  or  singly  they  quit  the  board ; 
The  torch  is  paling,  the  flutes  stop  blowing, 
The  meat  is  eaten,  the  wine  is  poured. 

The  warlike  game  of  life  is  over, 


THE  BROOK.  63 

The  lists  are  closed,  and  hushed  the  field, 
The  weary  warrior  draws  the  cover 
Across  his  battered  shield. 

What  sombre  metamorphosis, 

Tell  me,  fantastic  elf,  is  this  ? 

And  has  dim  age  waylaid  thy  grace, 

Stolen  the  dimples  from  thy  face, 

Set  a  fetter  on  thy  mirth, 

And    touched    thy    bounteous    heart    with 

dearth  ? 

The  languid  step,  the  weary  eyes, 
The  feeble  voice  too  well  betoken  : 
Lamed  are  the  wondrous  energies, 
And  half  the  frolic  spirit  broken. 
There  is  no  laughter  on  his  cheek, 
His  riant  gambol  is  grown  meek, 
Yet  are  his  shadowy  depths  intense     . 
With  some  transcendent  influence. 
?or  no  disasters  can  destroy 
Thy  secret  hope,  thy  lofty  joy, 
The  faith  that  neither  comes  nor  goes, 


64  THE  BROOK:. 

Wavers  not  in  any  wind, 
But  with  a  consecrate  repose 
Ever  clearly  burns  and  glows 
In  the  heart  and  in  the  mind  ; 
Through  the  spirit's  lattices 
Streams  upon  the  common  air, 
Makes  the  stars  appear  more  fair 
And  doubles  upon  evening  skies 
The  loveliness  they  wear. 

In  thy  still  features  is  expressed 
Mute  rapture  and  a  supplication, 
A  perfect  peace,  a  heavenly  rest, 
The  golden  calm  of  holy  passion. 
It  touches  me  with  sweet  surprise, 
Transcends  and  startles  and  abashes, 
As  couched  in  this  uncheerful  guise 
Thy  deeper  nature  on  me  flashes. 
Happy  for  thee,  but  most  for  me, 
That  to  this  spot  I  followed  thee  ! 
To  read  the  simplest  heart  aright, 
Must  turn  the  leaf  whereon  is  writ 


THE  BROOK.  65 

The  thing  it  prays  for  day  and  night. 
Best  judge  is  he  that  has  the  grace 
To  spy  behind  its  shifting  wit 
The  temple  where  it  loves  to  sit, 
And  by  the  light  upon  its  face 
Divine  the  eternal  type  of  it. 

From  her  eyry  in  the  north 

The  white- winged  Winter  screaming  swoops, 

Drives  her  talons  in  the  earth, 

And  binds  the  land  with  frosty  hoops. 

The  thin  blood  of  the  halting  Brook 

She  curdles  with  her  bitter  look, 

Locks  in  icy  gyves  his  feet 

And  cuts  his  flesh  with  barbed  sleet. 

With  weary  back  and  head  depressed 

And  long  beard  frozen  to  his  breast, 

He  toils  to  draw  his  staggering  flood 

To  the  covert  of  a  wood. 

But  see,  he  starts,  he  pricks  his  ear, 

He  claps  his  aged  hands  for  glee  : 

Ah  !  closer  now  he  seems  to  hear 
5 


66  THE  BROOK. 

The  music  of  the  eternal  sea, 

The  haven  and  the  perfect  goal 

To  which  the  tides  of  being  roll. 

He  shouts,  he  snaps  his  icy  chain, 

His  spirit  from  its  burden  frees  ; 

Light  as  a  roe  he  skims  the  plain, 

Swift  as  a  dart  he  flees. 

The  little  earth  of  death  and  birth 

Is  fast  behind  him  falling, 

And  stronger,  clearer,  louder,  nearer, 

The  awful  Deeps  are  calling. 

Time,  the  tamer,  puts  his  bit 
In  the  strong  man's  mouth  : 
His  hirelings  in  the  saddle  sit 
And  quell  the  blood  of  youth. 
Time,  the  herdsman,  turns  his  years 
To  pasture  on  his  vernal  cheek  ; 
Ploughman,  through  his  feature  steers 
A  stealthy  share  in  grooves  oblique  ; 
Reaper,  he  with  sickle  cleaves 
From  his  eyes  their  burning  sheaves  ; 


THE  BROOK.  67 

With  flail  from  his  adventurous  heart 
He  threshes  all  the  bolder  part ; 
With  fan  he  winnows  from  his  lip 
The  airy  laugh,  the  winged  quip. 
Upon  his  brow  the  quill  of  care 
Begins  to  write  a  sober  page, 
And  through  its  raven  warp  his  hair 
Admits  the  hoary  woof  of  age. 


The  rumble  of  the  world's  loud  course 

Ebbs  from  his  inattentive  ear, 

The  wine  of  youth  has  spent  its  force 

And  leaves  his  spirit  clear. 

Now  solemn  themes  his  thought  employ, 

He  sits  on  Nature's  temple-stair, 

Walks  by  immortal  founts  of  joy 

And  haunts  the  tripod  of  sweet  prayer. 

Forebodings  bright  to  him  are  given, 

His  faith  burns  like  a  sun, 

And  up  the  shining  porch  of  heaven 

His  hopes  like  couriers  run. 

Upon  his  lips  ripe  Wisdom  lays 


68  THE  J3ROOK. 

Her  purple  clusters  forth, 

His  words  are  fragrant  with  sweet  praise 

And  glad  with  holy  mirth  ; 

And  life's  tumultuous  dithyramb 

Changes  to  an  eternal  psalm. 


PA  R  T     II. 


SONGS    AND    STUDIES 


SONGS  XND  STUDIES. 


CHANGE  stalks  of  Song,  for  which  no  plough 
share  ripped 

The  belly  of  the  glebe,  of  which  the  seed, 
No  planter  measuring  out  his  careful  pace 
Sowed    through   the    chinks    of  the   quick- 
swinging  palm, 

But  rather  random-strewn  by  grace  of  wind 
On  pastures  where  the  Fancy  loved  to  browse— 
Nor  yet  far  off,  but  bordering  close  the  broad 
Well-ordered  seed-field  of  laborious  thought— 
These,  loosely  gathered  in  a  little  sheaf 
For  him  to  thresh  that  has  the  will,  I  bring. 
Some  wild  brake-buds,  for  fragrance  or  for 

tint 
Culled  by  the  captious  finger ; — now,  to  me, 


72  SONGS  AND  STUDIES. 

Half-withered      rhymes     that    only     faintly 

breathe 

The  happy  perfume  of  their  earlier  sweet ; — 
Some  trefoil-blossoms,  plain  enough,  and  yet 
No  heart  was  mine  to  slight  them  utterly, 
So  thick  they  thronged  and  clung  about  my 

feet; 

These,  as  a  maid  that  to  her  lover  sends 
Some   sober   gift,    will    stick    it   round  with 

flowers, 

These  have  I  tucked  within  the  girth,  in  hope 
To  lay  a  beam  or  two  of  transient  grace 
Across  the  homely  fardel  that  I  bring. 


THE  STRAYS. 

THE  budding  maid,  not  half  a  flower, 

When  first  the  warbling  days  of  June 
Build  nests  about  the  household  bower, 

Loves  to  unlatch  her  little  shoon 
And  wade  and  paddle  in  the  grass 

From  matin  to  the  glare  of  noon. 
The  tickled  soles  in  frolic  pass 

Their  wonted  range  ;  she  slips  along 
From  mead  to  mead,  a  truant  lass. 

Gliding,  she  purls,  a  brook  of  song, 
Tripping,  she  chirrs,  a  happy  dove, 

Dancing,  she  shouts,  a  bacchante  strong. 
Crowfoot  and  buttercup  for  love 

She  gathers,  but  the  fingers  fair, 
Though  bursting,  cannot  pluck  enough. 

She  thrusts  them,  blithesome,  in  her  hair 
Longwise  and  crosswise,  to  her  taste, 

And  since  her  hands  have  yet  to  spare, 


74 


* 


THE  STRAYS. 


She  trims  her  bosom  and  her  waist ; 

Then  looping  up  in  graceful  fold 
Her  span  of  apron,  fills  in  haste 
Its  fairy  hollow  with  the  gold, 
And,  gazing  sadly  round  her,  sighs, 

Nigh  weeps,  because  it  will  not  hold 
All  the  bright  meadows  in  her  eyes. 

Anon  she  smiles,  in  thought  to  please 
Her  mother  with  a  dear  surprise, 

And  sitting  plaits  upon  her  knees 
A  chaplet ;  round  it  throng  to  sip 

A  choir  of  splendor-drunken  bees. 
Right  homeward  then  with  trill  and  skip 

She  gambols,  dangling  from  her  arm 
The  sweet  grace  of  her  workmanship  ; 

And,  entering,  springs  with  kisses  warm, 
And  clambering  to  the  mother's  breast 
About  her  temples  girds  the  charm  ; 
Who  lightly  chides  the  foolish  quest, 
The  truant  prank,  the  hoiden  play, 
But  sits  for  secret  gladness  dressed 

In  those  poor  weeds  the  summer's  day. 


THE  STRAYS.  75 

O  darling  maid  ! — And  shall  I  chide 

The  wayward  muse,  the  elfin  stray 
That  brings  from  brook-marge  and  hill-side 

Flower-foam  and  waifs  of  woodland  rhyme  ? 
Not  I  :  be  not  the  grace  denied 

To  wanton  in  her  honeyed  prime, 
If  faintest  foretaste  but  abide 

Of  sober  thought  in  riper  time. 


SONGS  IN  SOLITUDE. 


THE  dreamy  current  of  the  day 

Drifts  past  me  to  the  breathless  west, 
The  hills  are  wrapt  in  autumn  gray. 

Feathers  of  mist,  plucked  from  the  breast 
Of  one  white  cloud,  a  languid  breeze 

Bears  off  to  line  his  noonday  nest. 
Not  wholly  by  insidious  ease 

Or  listless  murmurs  in  the  brain 
Mastered,  I  watch  the  noon  increase. 

'Tis  something  wisely  to  refrain, 
Fling  down  the  mask  and  keep  awhile 

The  judgment  just,  the  impulse  sane. 
Banished  the  manners  that  defile, 

The  polished  lie,  the  sordid  pain, 
Banished  the  venal  hand  and  smile. 

When  armies,  closing  on  the  plain, 
Thunder  all  day,  but  at  the  eve 


SONGS  IN  SOLITUDE.  77 

Give  o'er  the  buffet  and  the  strain 
To  slumber  in  a  short  reprieve, 

While  the  soft  solace  of  the  night 
Steeps  limbs  that  bleed  and  hearts  that  grieve, 

To  some  lone  watchman  on  the  height 
The  silence  seems  surcharged  with  fate, 

He  dreads  the  hour  that  brings  the  light ; 
Musing  what  new  events  await, 

Praying  the  lawful  sword  may  win, 
And  ever  saying,  God  is  great ; 

So,  exiled  from  the  smoke  and  din, 
Under  the  eaves  of  solitude, 

An  eye  recluse,  unknown  to  men, 
I  nurse  the  meditative  mood, 

Divining  in  my  lonely  cove 
The  pulses  of  the  central  flood  ; 

Content  with  frolic  feet  to  rove, 
Drinking  the  wine,  but  not  the  lees, 

A  truant  heart  in  vale  and  grove  ; 
Hearing  the  harvest-songs  of  bees, 

The  soft  nest-chat  of  dove  with  dove, 
Her  voice  an  olive-branch  of  peace. 


78  SONGS  IN  SOLITUDE. 

II. 

One  says,  "  This  fine-fed  indolence 

Consumes  the  bow,  displumes  the  shaft ; 
Your  arrows  miss  the  deeper  sense. 

Come  forth  to  men  ;  wed  hand  to  haft ; 
Reap  toilsome  sheaves  with  lawful  pain  ; 

Find  hearth  and  temple  in  your  craft." 
The  mystic  leaven  of  the  brain, 

The  heart  divinely  turbulent, 
The  sun-like  eye,  are  these  in  vain  ? 

Few  grieve,  where  all  men  are  content  ; 
All  find,  but  few  are  they  who  seek  : 

Too  supple  creeds,  too  prone  assent  ! 
Grace  for  the  dreamer  on  the  peak, 

Lifting  the  prayer  of  asking  eyes, 
Nor  shamed  in  spirit  not  to  speak 

In  plausive  scheme  or  raw  surmise, 
To  chafe  his  breath  to  violent  wind 

Or  patch  a  ragged  world  with  lies. 
Ah  !    little  blossom  of  the  mind, 

In  stillness  ray  thy  purple  whorl, 


SONGS  IN  SOLITUDE.  79 

True  to  the  law  that  shapes  thy  kind. 

The  rains  will  brim  thy  bowl  with  pearl, 
The  sunbeams  kiss  thine  eyelids  red, 

On  thee  some  vagrant  bee  will  furl 
His  gauzes  and  from  thee  be  fed  ; 

Thy  dainty  fruit  will  ripen  here, 
Thy  tender  pappus  here  be  shed. 

Not  mine  to  doubt  the  bond  severe, 
The  weft,  the  fusion  of  the  Whole, 

A  myriad  centres,  one  fair  sphere  ; 
Or  that  the  private  spark  may  roll 

Some  beam  of  virtue  through  the  Vast, 
And  faintly  shape  the  general  goal. 

The  fruit  of  Time,  that  ripens  last, 
Will  mingle  in  its  juices  warm 

Flavors  of  all  the  eons  past. 
Perfect  the  individual  form 

With  patient  art  that  works  by  glee, 
Enriched  by  loss  and  saved  by  harm. 

O  Life,  pervasive,  bounteous,  free, 
I  guard  the  gift  thou  gavest  me, 

The  crystal  spherule  from  thy  sea. 


NOONTIDE. 

FALL'N  in  a  deep  ambrosial  swoon 

The  Hours,  filled  full  of  golden  wine, 
Slept  on  the  bosom  of  the  noon. 

The  passive  Sylvans  made  no  sign, 
No  leaflet  fluttered  on  its  roost, 

The  rose  dreamed  sidelong,  and  the  vine 
Half-way  her  drowsy  tendrils  loosed. 

No  feather  of  breeze  ;  the  thistle  felt 
No  airy  finger  interfused 

Betwixt  his  silvers  :  brink-flowers  knelt 
Brook-wards  to  cool  their  lips  of  fire, 

Lilies  perceived  their  waxes  melt. 
The  bird  that  wears  the  bright  attire, 

The  down  of  fire-grained  Nessean  woof, 
Burned  like  a  phcenix  on  her  pyre. 

The  tortoise  quenched  his  blazing  roof 
In  cool-stemmed  grasses,  and  the  bee 

Felt  helm  and  targe,  though  battle-proof, 


NOONTIDE,  8 1 

Fuse  in  gold-drippings  to  his  knee. 

Perchance  a  fledgling  zephyr  dressed 
His  tender  winglets  murmurously, 

Not  venturing  from  his  shady  nest ; 
Or  if,  hill-born,  a  bolder  breath 

Braved  the  mid-ether  in  his  quest, 
He  tumbled  in  precipitous  death, 

Shorn  of  his  frail  Icarian  fan. 
And  I,  in  mossy  ease  beneath 

A  leafy  lintel,  strove  to  plan 
The  fancy-bubbles  of  vague  song 

Blown  from  the  gurgling  reed  of  Pan. 
But  the  fine  ghosts,  an  agile  throng, 

Slipped  through  the  meshes  of  my  strain, 
Elve-syllables,  for  mortal  tongue 

Too  wayward.     Then  upon  my  brain 
The  soft  meridional  hum 

Beat  billowing  from  the  broad  champaign, 
Over  my  eyelids  poppies  clomb, 

And  scarce  I  caught  the  footfall  dumb 
Of  Slumber  through  the  thicket  come. 


THE   THINKERS. 

O  MERLIN,  wise  to  understand, 

Tiresias,  of  prevision  strong, 
Paulus,  a  bolt  from  God's  right  hand, 

Ye  fashion,  but  the  world  shapes  wrong, 
Ye  lighten,  but  her  paths  are  dark 

For  all  your  agony,  all  your  song. 
The  misty  gloamings  drown  your  spark, 

Your  words  are  shred  on  spleenful  winds, 
Your  arrows  veer  askant  the  mark. 

She  reels  in  Satyr-rout  and  binds 
Upon  her  front  the  dissolute  leaf, 

Loves  horn  and  shagg  of  her  brute  kinds, 
The  whirling  goat-hoof.     Not  for  grief 

May  ye  disroot  what  ye  have  sown, 
Secure  that  Fate  in  his  last  sheaf 

Will   slip   some   stalks   your   hands    have 

grown, 
Will  load  his  shuttle  once  or  twice 


THE    THINKERS.  83 

With  thread  of  yours  for  tint  or  tone. 
As  gloss  that  winks  on  vesper  flies, 

Or  ghost  of  Iris  none  may  thrall, 
Ye  seem  in  men's  bewildered  eyes. 

And  yet  God's  elements  at  your  call 
Flock,  and  your  trumpets  awake  the  sea 

Old  capes  to  banish,  new  climes  install. 
O  tangle  of  sad  humanity, 

Loathed,     loved    and    worshipped    in     a 

breath, 
First  knowledge,  latest  mystery, 

Happy,  who  through  thy  forms  of  death, 
Thy  barren  crusts  of  winter,  spies 

The  couchant  elf  that  waits  beneath 
To  flower  in  amaranthine  dyes, 

And  lead  the  vernal  sweetness  in 
With  fragrant  meadows  and  flushing  skies  ; 

Whose  ears,  though  fretted  by  the  din 
Of  thy  vext  shoals,  where  shift  and  poise 

Folk  of  fine  scale  and  scarlet  fin, 
From  ocean-margins  hears  a  noise 

Where  Freedom  from  her  central  deep 


84  THE    THINKERS. 

Speaks,  a  still  thunder  of  God's  voice ; 

Who,  pitiful  but  strong,  can  keep 
A  pinion  of  soft  brooding  spread 

Above  the  trouble  of  thy  sleep. 
Awake,  lift  up  the  sunken  head, 

Loosen  the  shackled  tongue  and  sing, 
Grand  are  the  goals  to  which  we  tread  ! 

The  leaven  of  life  is  leavening, 
The  type  enlarging,  strengthening 

From  pupa  to  the  perfect  wing. 


COQUETTE. 

O  BLITHE  new-comer,  light-heart  breeze, 

Whose  frisk  and  frolic  bristle  all 
The  dreamy  plumage  of  the  trees, 

Say,  can  your  wanton  wit  recall, 
Since  from  the  beryl-bosomed  deep 

You  spun  your  giddy  carnival, 
The  founts  at  which  you  paused  to  steep 

The  dewless  lip,  the  boughs  whereon 
You  lodged  at  night  and  fell  asleep  ? 

Under  the  silver  spokes  of  dawn 
Or  when  the  flickering  moth  shook  loose 

Her  purfled  flounces  on  the  lawn, 
Met  you,  at  frolic  in  the  dews 

Or  some  light  wood-lay  carolling, 
That  roving  maid  who  was  my  Muse  ? 

She  flies  askance,  a  graceful  thing  ; 


86  COQUETTE. 

Full  of  delicious  craft  and  guile, 

More  fitful  than  a  swallow's  wing. 
It  scarce  were  worth  a  plain  man's  while 

To  woo  her  overmuch,  and  play 
At  hazards  with  her  lovely  smile, 

But  that  at  times  she  bends  her  way 
Unto  my  threshold,  in  her  eyes 

Bringing  the  affluent  sun  of  May  : 
Ah  then  she  deals  in  meek  replies 

And  lends  herself  to  cheer  the  house, 
With  seemly  gait,  retired  and  wise  ; 

And,  loyal  unto  household  vows, 
Plays  round  the  hearth-stone  like  a  beam 

And  takes  the  honor  of  a  spouse. 
Then  wear  the  lawns  a  festal  gleam, 

The  thickets  build  a  marriage-song, 
And  Undine  laughs  along  her  stream  ; 

While  high  above  the  gleeful  throng 
The  wood-thrush  from  his  leafy  tower 

Rings,  Hymen,  Hymen,  all  day  long. 
Then  feels  the  rose  a  golden  shower, 

As  when  that  pair  of  heavenly  line 


COQUETTE. 

Held  dalliance  in  the  Rhodian  bower  ; 

With  wreaths  the  cottage-porches  shine, 
The  lintel  blossoms,  and  the  flower 

Swarms  at  the  eaves  and  hangs  divine. 


THE  DRAUGHT. 

BRING  not  the  graven  cup,  I  pray, 

Let  Hebe  forth  at  her  own  will ; 
The  wine  of  gods  I  slight  to-day. 

Beside  the  spring  below  the  hill 
A  rusty  ladle  you  may  see, 

That  half  will  hold  and  half  will  spill. 
Let  nothing  fair  the  bearer  be  : 

But  pluck  the  drab  from  out  the  street 
And  let  her  brim  the  bowl  for  me. 

Juice  of  the  earth,  I  find  thee  sweet, 
Thy  salt  is  honey,  soother  none, 

And  in  thy  bitter  there  is  meat. 
Milk  of  the  rocks,  thou  lendest  tone, 

Iron  for  blood  that  feebly  runs, 
Granite  for  crumbling  arch  of  bone. 

Who  taps  not  all  thy  sombre  tuns, 
O  vault  of  earth,  shall  never  sit 

At  revel  with  Olympus'  sons. 


THE  DRAUGHT.  89 

So  let  the  abysmal  spaces  flit ; 

I  choose  the  things  of  form  and  bound, 
For  heavenly  sandals,  shoes  that  fit. 

The  lordly  Daemons,  wisdom-crowned, 
Let  them  in  solemn  march  go  by 

Unchallenged  on  their  splendid  round  ; 
Mean  things  and  homely  snare  my  eye, 

Things  framed  too  early,  born  too  late, 
And  things  rejected  of  the  sky. 

For,  mindful  of  her  ancient  state, 
The  Soul  can  still  herself  adorn  ; 

She  proudly  turns  her  back  on  Fate  ; 
Yea,  dares  to  slight,  she,  eldest  born, 

Pale  gods  whose  race  is  scarce  begun, 
And  now,  for  sport,  half  smiles,  half  scorn, 

She  weaves  from  shreds  and  things  undone 

A  robe  so  bright  it  might  be  spun 

From  flaming  fleeces  of  the  sun. 


METAMORPHOSIS. 

BRAKE-FENDED  from  the  brooding  gleam, 

The  curtains  of  the  eye  half-drawn, 
I  nursed  the  sultry  mid-day  dream. 

Lo,  clad  in  garments  stained  and  wan, 
Barefooted  and  unsightly,  danced 

A  knot  of  damsels  down  the  lawn, 
Plucking,  as  lightly  they  advanced, 

Cheap  fruit  of  many  a  vulgar  spray, 
Berries  or  faded  flowers,  as  chanced  ; 

Whereof  they  wove  with  gestures  gay 
What  seemed  a  chaplet  to  my  eyes, 

Rude  as  a  child  might  shape  at  play. 
Though  wondering  much,  I  made  surmise, 

'  These  fashion  some  fantastic  freak, 
Elves  of  the  woodland  in  disguise.' 

With    hoods    curled    backward    from   the 

cheek, 
Dumb  lips  and  paces  hush  and  slow 


ME  TAMORPHOSIS. 

And  something  of  a  reverence  meek, 
They  came  and  hung  about  my  brow 

The  sordid  crown,  and  greeting  spake, 
But  couched  in  words  I  did  not  know. 

Mocked  like  a  dreamer  half  awake, 
I  said,  '  What  seek  ye  for  a  game, 

To  jeer  me  for  your  idlesse'  sake  ? 
Grudge  ye  the  bard  his  slighted  name, 

His  hope  retired,  his  simple  glee, 
The  meagre  hand's-breadth  of  his  fame  ? 

Nathless  these  weeds  are  dear  to  me, 
Content  from  nature's  dross  to  hide 

The  leanness  of  my  poverty.' 
Too  proud  for  any  show  of  pride, 

I  made  obeisance  to  my  foes, 
Stemming  with  scorn  the  craven  tide 

That  underneath  my  eyelids  rose  : 
Whereat,  as  pleased,  they  smiled  and  knit 

Their  sunburnt  palms  in  circle  close 
And  with  shrill  songs  began  to  flit 

Round  me  in  wild  foot-cddyings, 
Like  rushing  Thyads,  fury-smit. 


92  METAMORPHOSIS. 

Then  slowly,  as  a  day,  that  springs 
Dun  from  the  orient,  sweeps  aside 

The  mist  that  to  his  forehead  clings, 
And  scales  his  shining  arcs  with  pride, 

Tossing  a  glance  of  royal  scorn 
From  zenith  to  horizon  wide, 

A  purple  change  o'er  these  was  born  ; 
Their  vesture  glowed  like  clouds  that  rise 

Fresh  from  the  crimson  baths  of  morn. 
Wild  flickerings  vanished  from  their  eyes, 

Their  feet  took  measures  maidenly, 
They  sang  with  burthens  mild  and  wise. 

And  I  beheld  that  sacred  Three, 
Who  with  the  Graces  walked  and  him 

That  framed  the  lyre  in  Thessaly  ; 
The  masking  Hours,  frolic  and  grim, 

And  whom  they  may,  deluding  sore, 
And  whom  they  may  not,  blessing  him  ; 

The  masking  Hours,  that  by  our  door 
In  weeds  of  vagrants  daily  sit, 

And  show  their  seeming  trivial  store, 
Coarse  bead  or  brooch  or  amulet, 


ME  TAMORPHOSIS. 

Too  mean  to  buy,  too  slight  to  keep  ; 
And  we  see  not,  for  all  our  wit, 

The  eternal  jewels  flash  and  peep, 
Immortal  prizes,  heavenly  hoards 

Disguised  beneath  the  tinsels  cheap. 
But  while  I  groped  for  fitting  words 

They  snapped  their  rosy  links  and  fled 
With  laughter  like  the  trill  of  birds. 

I  plucked  the  garland  from  my  head  ; 
Lo  leaf  and  petal  blown  anew  ! 

No  shrivelled  blossoms,  but  instead 
Amaranth,  and  where  the  berries  grew, 
A  lucent  cyme  of  stars,  and  through 
The  glowing  mesh  clear  beads  of  dew. 


93 


DOOM. 

HIGH  challenges  to  valor,  heard 

Blown  by  the  trumpet  of  the  wind 
Or  brought  in  billet  by  the  bird, 

He,  the  clear  fountain  of  whose  mind 
Is  curdled  by  the  frog  of  sense, 

Accepts  not,  coward  all  and  blind. 
His  tools  of  onset  and  defence 

Moulder  ;  his  hands  are  lamed  and  weak  ; 
The  pennon  of  sweet  innocence, 

Unfurled  in  crimson  on  his  cheek, 
Draggles  in  mire  ;  his  shield  of  faith 

Half  buried  lies  in  odious  reek 
And  caverned  by  the  worms  of  death  : 

The  beauteous  heraldry  of  his  brow 
All  tarnished  by  corroding  breath  : 

The  beams  of  heaven  not  struggle  through 
The  turbid  liquors  of  his  eye, 

The  martial  peals  he  erewhile  knew 


DOOM. 


95 


On  the  ear's  threshold  pine  and  die  ; 

His  feet  are  gyved,  they  will  not  move, 
Languid  his  limbs  of  battle  lie  : 

The  crystal  phial  of  his  love, 
Filled  with  rank  ferments,  bursts  the  heart 

That  held  it  shrined  :  around,  above, 
Signals  of  doom  in  tempest  dart ; 

The  temple  of  his  being  bows 
Upon  her  bases,  breaks  apart 

Sundered  and  wrenched  with  fateful  throes  ; 
Her  lamps  are  quenched,  her  portals  gride, 

Her  altar  crumbles  where  it  rose, 
Her  pillars  from  beneath  her  slide, 
And  through  and  through  her  quivering  side 
The  lurid  forks  of  ruin  glide. 


POET  A   NASCENS. 

WHAT  joy  to  watch  the  maiden  bard 

Trim  his  Urania's  sacred  hair 
Witfi  apple-blossoms  and  fume  of  nard  ; 

Enchase  the  sheath  with  curious  care 
And  gem  the  hilt  of  Truth,  before 

He  girds  it  on  for  daily  wear  ; 
Polish  a  theme  in  copious  store 

Of  its  own  dust,  until  it  shine 
A  maze  of  mirrors,  a  starry  core  ; 

Daintily  card  and  full  his  line, 
Ingrain  with  all  iridian  hues, 

And  quilt  with  passion  half  divine  ! 
We  love  him,  though  his  tender  Muse 

Touch  with  rouge-cushioned  kitten-paw 
The  weapons  of  the  world  of  use. 

We  pray  his  riper  rhyme  may  draw 
Some  ranging  heart  to  love  the  yoke 

And  take  the  sober  march  of  law  ; 


POETA  NASCENS.  97 

Or  yet  may  cleave  with  fiery  stroke 

Some  bond  that  long  has  lashed  the  soul 

To  Fate's  rough  Ixionic  spoke  ; 
Or  yet  melodiously  control 
Blind  motions  to  a  fruitful  goal 
And  fuse  them  gently  in  the  Whole. 
7 


SIGHT-SEEING. 

A  PURPLE  cluster  of  ripe  hours, 

O'erbrimmed  with  laughter  of  the  sun, 
Full  of  warm  winds  and  irised  showers, 

While  all  the  heavens  full  splendor  shone, 
From  the  blue  vineyard  of  the  Day 

I  plucked  and  tasted,  one  by  one  : 
Whose  genial  wine  began  to  play 

A  solstice  through  the  blood,  and  melt 
The  frigid  thought  with  mellow  ray  ; 

And  girt  my  body  with  a  belt 
Of  eyes,  and  the  diffusive  sense 

Stung  through  its  soft  nerve-pulps,  that  felt 
Tremors  of  pleasant  violence  ; 

Showed  me  the  chosen  grots  where  hide 
Coy  types  and  maiden  elements  ; 

Fleet  secrets  that  forever  glide 
Meshed  in  the  brook's  inseparate  twine  ; 

Or  something  of  the  grace  implied 


SIGHT-SEEING.  99 

By  sunny  elve,  whose  needle  fine 

Broiders  the  peplum  of  the  rose 
With  tales  of  love  and  lore  divine  ; 

Or  on  what  quest,  against  what  foes 
The  slashed  bee,  groping  round  and  round, 

Through  flowery  Cretan  mazes  goes, 
Unreeling  his  fine  clue  of  sound  ; 

What  udders  give  the  humbird  suck, 
And  with  what  milk  their  ducts  abound  ; 

What  glebe  the  robin  delves  for  luck  ; 
From  what  uncropped  Elysian  patch 

The  zephyrs  myrrh  and  spices  pluck  ; 
With  what  brave  ethick  wood-birds  thatch 

The  lighter  graces  of  their  strain  ; 
How  hollow-out  the  soul  to  catch 

The  patter  of  melodious  rain 
Sprent  from  the  clouds  of  blossom-fleece, 

Where  moulds  the  thrush  her  soft  refrain  ; 
How  unperplex  the  characteries 

Etched  by  the  sunbeam  in  the  shade, 

« 

Sweet  snarl  of  runic  poesies  ; 

Or  spell  the  grander  scroll  displayed 


100  SIGHT-SEEING. 

On  crumpled  hills  in  pages  broad, 

Writ  by  the  quill  of  Light,  arrayed 
In  all  the  subtle  inks  of  God  ; 

How  ravel  out  the  auguries 
The  pinions  of  the  cloud  forebode, 

Or  how  from  mountain-curves  to  piece 
The  circle  of  the  universe, 

Or  how  from  Life's  own  energies 
With  lawful  coin  to  reimburse 
The  largess  of  her  affluent  purse 
And  buy  a  freedom  from  the  curse. 


VALOR. 

TEMPER  the  will  by  day  and  night 

Flexile  as  Arab  cimeter, 
Yet  rough  as  Saxon  mace  to  smite. 
"  Burnish  it  fondly  :  leave  no  blur  : 
Pendragon's  blade  of  fate  arose 

From  mythic  depths  of  character. 
Wise  Merlin's  scrolls  perforce  disclose 

Their  wizard  meanings  to  his  eyes  ; 
He  knows  by  valor  what  he  knows. 

Love  draws  the  sword  and  saints  are  wise 
To  seize  a  timely  bolt  of  fire 

And  storm  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
Craves  the  coy  goddess  of  the  lyre 

Heroic  hands  her  virgin  flower 
To  pluck,  and  answer  her  desire. 

For  all  fair  things  are  quick  with  power  : 
Beauty  for  mother,  strength  for  sire, 

These  gave  the  world  his  natal  hour. 


SONG  IN  AUTUMN. 

THE  season  of  so  prosperous  birth, 

That  came,  drew  breath  and  waxed  com 
plete, 
Wanes  gently,  lapsing  into  dearth. 

Old  words  are  gracious  to  rep'eat, 
Old  songs  are  welcome  to  the  lyre, 

Old  dances  pleasant  to  the  feet. 
New  cycles  to  the  self-same  gyre 

Are  added  ;  yet  not  all  the  same, 
But  mixed  with  hints  of  something  higher. 

Not  meanly  wise  in  one  poor  game, 
But  on  a  widening  whorl  is  grooved 

The  impulse  of  the  general  frame. 
Though  thought  from  age  to  age  be  moved 

In  tedious  eddies  round  the  mind 
And  modern  proof  be  long  disproved, 

Not  less  a  simple  faith  may  find, 
In  forms  that  upward  touch  and  fuse, 


SONG  IN  AUTUMN.  IO3 

A  world-old  prescience  strong  to  bind 
Fierce  contraries  to  central  use ; 

A  flower  of  Time  divinely  sprung 
From  seeds  of  difference  and  abuse. 

No  wanton  freak  at  random  flung 
To  cheer  the  idlesse  of  the  skies 

When  gods  were  wild  of  blood  and  young, 
And  Fate,  sleep-heavy  in  the  eyes, 

Let  slip  the  distaff  for  a  space  ; 
But  bedded  deep  in  Godhead  lies 

The  method  of  the  starry  race, 
Filled  full  of  his  necessity, 

Flushed  through  with  colors  of  his  grace. 
Year  after  year  it  bides  with  me 

That  the  supreme  sole  Form  transcends 
All  type  of  personality. 

A  guess,  you  say,  too  far  ;  that  lends 
Majestic  distance  to  the  eye, 

But  scarce  can  make  the  heart  amends, 
Which  craves  a  nearness,  a  reply, 
A  sense  of  correspondency, 
A  warmth,  a  purple  in  its  sky. 


THE  FIRST  SPRING-DA  Y. 

WHILE  the  raw  vales  of  March  were  white 

With  faded  plumules  from  the  vans 
Of  Winter,  as  she  rose  for  flight, 

Upon  a  sunlit  crest,  by  chance, 
A  threefold  group  shone  in  my  sight, 

Diverse  and  strange  of  countenance : 
A  shaggy  Scythian,  fierce  in  might, 

Snow-drifts  along  his  windy  hair, 
His  eye  a  dull  barbarian  light : 

A  delicate  lady  and  most  fair, 
Blue-eyed,  a  marvellous  thing  to  see, 

Yet  something  pale  of  face  and  spare  ; 
Holding  mid-arm  in  girlish  glee 

A  dimpled  babe,  tender  and  sleek, 
Blanched  like  a  first  anemone  : 

You  spelled  the  sire  on  brow  and  cheek, 
But  on  the  lips  and  in  the  eyes 

The  mother's  smile  serene  and  meek. 


THE  FIRST  SPRING-DAY.  I 

This  baby-blossom  of  cold  skies, 
Born  half  of  winter,  half  of  spring, 

Trembles  a  little  where  it  lies. 

Of  it  some  sweet  child-bard  should  sing, 

In  whom  no  flecks  of  darkness  stain 
The  silver  glosses  of  his  wing. 

But  I  would  mingle  with  my  strain, 

Darling,  too  many  notes  of  pain 

For  days  o'erlived  in  vain,  in  vain. 


THE  GOOD  MAN. 

WOULD'ST  taste  the  sweets  of  Paradise, 

Walk  with  the  good  man  in  his  sphere ; 
May'st  fetch  thy  Eden  from  his  eyes  ; 

Whereof  the  beams  are  sweet  and  clear 
And  holy  as  the  virgin  rays, 

Which  Morning  lays  upon  the  bier 
Of  Darkness  ;  and  within  their  gaze 

The  waste  hearts  into  blossom  break, 
The  dumb  lips  build  a  song  of  praise. 

All  safely  of  his  wisdom  take, 
The  signet  on  whose  mouth  is  peace  : 

His  simple  words  are  strong  to  wake 
The  pure  and  spiritous  melodies 

That  cluster  round  the  silent  strings 
Of  the  golden  harp  that  hidden  lies 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  each  :  he  flings, 
Soft  as  a  zephyr  at  the  eve, 

His  spirit  o'er  it  and  it  rings 


THE    GOOD   MAN. 


107 


Loyally  to  his  suasive  hand : 

The  imprisoned  starry  Loves  their  wings 
Open,  the  solemn  Hopes  expand ; 

The  austere  majestic  Duties  wear 
Sweet  winsome  smiles  and  dimples  bland, 

And  dance,  like  holy  maids  that  bear 
Rose-garlands,  knots  of  festal  hues, 

Round  Life  and  all  his  common  fanes. 
His  gracious  feet  can  well  infuse 

Quick  vernal  virtues  in  dead  plains, 
Kiss  the  wan  cheek  of  barrenness 

To  verdure,  and  revive  its  veins, 
Whose  daily  manners  have  the  grace, 

The  rigor  of  the  arcs  of  God, 
And  in  the  glory  of  whose  face 

Men  read  their  grandeur ;  there  is  showed, 
As  in  a  vision,  what  shall  come  ; 

Large  laws  unwrit  in  any  code, 
The  state,  the  temple  and  the  home 

That  wait  to  make  the  future  plan, 
The  perfect  pillar,  the  arch,  the  dome, 

The  summits  and  the  goals  of  man. 


108  THE    GOOD  MAN. 

O  happy  threshold  he  doth  tread  ! 

O  happy  lintel  that  doth  span 
The  beauty  of  his  entering  head  ! 

O  happy  hearth,  elect  to  spread 
The  cloth,  and  fetch  the  good  man  bread  ! 


APRIL. 


WHAT  wonder  if  thy  tears  and  smiles 

Steal  from  of  old  the  poet's  heart, 
O  fairest  queen  of  sweetest  wiles  ! 

Then  let  me  bring  my  homely  part 
Of  praise,  my  violet  of  rhyme. 

Though  nobler  bards  with  better  art 
Have  sung  thee  many  and  many  a  time, 

Bards  that  could  slip  into  their  strain 
Some  threads  of  tender  or  sublime, 

Thou  wilt  not  scorn  my  weak  refrain, 
Knowing  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is  ' 

To  sing,  though  all  the  song  be  vain. 
Cold  Nature  by  thy  amorous  kiss 

Stung  sweetly,  stirs  his  limbs  and' feels 
A  thrill  of  immemorial  bliss. 

As  a  hoar  king,  whose  age  congeals 


1 10  APRTL. 

The  merry  pulse  of  early  years, 

The  flush  from  cheek  and  forehead  steals 
And  dries  the  founts  of  happy  tears,— 

Whose  servants,  seeking  through  the  land, 
Have  spied  among  the  wheaten  ears 

Where  maidens  reap  in  comely  band, 
A  creature  fashioned  wondrously, 

And  loosed  the  sickle  from  her  hand, 
And  led  her  in  that  she  may  be 

As  summer  to  the  wintry  king, 
As  music  to  his  misery, — 

Feeling  about  his  bosom  cling 
Her  glowing  arms,  and  o'er  his  face 

Her  flowery  breath  flow  murmuring, 
Loving  her  for  her  delicate  grace, 

Her  tender  palm  of  blandishment, 
Her  gracious  eyes  and  winsome  ways, 

Perceives  his  frosty  thews  relent, 
A  subtle  blossom  in  his  blood, 

Soft  throes  of  passionate  intent ; 
So  quickens  up  to  leaf  and  bud 

The  frore  earth  in  thy  fervent  arms 


APRIL.  1 

And  gets  his  youth  in  fiery  flood. 

Now,  while  the  brook  forgets  his  harms, 
The  meadows  hatch  the  flowery  brood, 

The  breeze  runs  riot  with  thy  charms, 
Bring  to  the  bard  his  proper  good, 

Season,  to  him  who  loves  thee  well ; 
And  melting  down  his  colder  mood, 

Teach  all  the  tender  buds  to  swell, 
The  buds  of  song  ;  pansy,  primrose 

And  crocus,  these  that  know  thy  spell. 
And  each  young  blossom  as  it  blows 

Shall  breathe  thy  love,  thy  glory  tell, 
At  morn  and  when  its  petals  close. 


II. 


Now  all  fair  natures  out  of  night 

Break,  and  put  on  their  strength  and  thrive, 
Blending  their  essence  with  the  light. 

The  pulseless  masses  heave  and  strive, 
.Rude  silence  flowers  to  sweetest  song, 

And  saddest  creatures  woo  and  wive. 


112  APRIL. 

With  harp  and  lute,  in  choric  throng, 

The  first-born  children  of  the  year, 
In  virgin  weeds,  untouched  by  wrong, 

On  sunny  levels  make  their  cheer, 
Pitching  bright  tents  of  brief  sojourn. 

Thanks,  darlings,  for  the  omen  dear, 
The  message  of  your  blithe  return  ; 

That  all  the  firm  old  centres  hold, 
And  all  regard  the  self-same  bourn  : 

Large  space  for  action,  as  of  old, 
For  eye  to  seek,  for  light  to  shine, 

And  meeds  and  glories  manifold. 

0  season,  give  me  of  thy  wine  : 

I  rend  the  sombre  suit  of  grief 
And  make  a  seemly  gladness  mine  ; 

That  while  the  world  in  transport  brief 
Bursts  into  jets  of  curious  flame 

And  slowly  builds  the  perfect  leaf, 

1  lie  not  cramped  by  sullen  shame, 

But  sandalled  with  an  emulous  fire, 
Be  parcel  of  the  splendid  game. 
All  things  forevermore  aspire  : 


APRIL.  1 1 

Nor  can  I  slacken  or  make  pause 

This  side  the  goal  of  pure  desire. 
Then  give  me  of  thy  wine  that  thaws 

Hopes  and  delights  too  long  frost-bound 
Under  the  might  of  ruder  laws. 

O  thyrsus-laden,  chaplet-crowned 
Young  Maenad  of  a  rite  sublime, 

Lift  up  a  dithyrambic  sound  ; 
Evoe  !  while  the  ambrosial  prime 
Beats  in  all  veins  a  living  rhyme 
And  generous  madness  pure  of  crime. 
8 


MY  HOUSE. 

THE  pillars  of  my  house  are  strong, 

God  gives  Himself  for  fundament, 
The  beams  of  Fate  to  her  belong. 

Though  fugitive  as  Arab  tent, 
Elusive  as  a  Libyan  mist, 

Where  frailest,  most  a  firmament. 
Ply  mine  or  petard,  as  ye  list, 

Flood  with  red  flame  her  chambers  all, 
Bring  Jotun,  Titan  to  assist, 

Ye  win  no  feeblest  prop  to  fall, 
Nor  scathe  the  poorest  tint  that  dyes 

The  sheen  of  her  translucent  wall. 
Lo,  many  men  in  anger  rise, 

The  peoples  trample,  and  the  zones, 
Stung  with  infuriate  energies, 

Clamor  with  broil  of  hostile  thrones  ; 
A  thousand  interests,  whelmed  in  gore, 

Sink,  and  the  wounded  planet  moans. 


MY  HOUSE.  i 

She  keeps  unshaken,  as  before, 

Her  solemn  proud  serenity, 
And  on  the  plinth  before  her  door 

Sits  Peace  ;  beside  her,  Harmony. 
Wherefore  in  her  my  heart  will  wear 

Triumphal  vests  of  faith  and  glee. 
For  musing  on  her  type  with  care, 

A  crystal  without  flaw  or  seam, 
All  inly  stablished  and  most  fair, 

Feeling  from  architrave  and  beam 
A  silent  grandeur  fall  to  bless, 

From  shaft  and  dome  a  gladness  stream, 
I  cry,  '  It  is  a  goodly  grace 

A  little  while  the  courts  to  tread, 
A  little  while,  of  this  sweet  place, 

Until  the  weanling  soul  be  bred 
To  universal  qualities  ; 

Until  Time  wither  and  be  shed 
Like  petals  from  the  fruiting  trees, 
And  Sense,  a  snow-flake,  thaw  and  cease, 
And  life  to  life  be  power  and  peace.' 


FREEDOM. 

O  THOU,  who  dwellest  with  the  wise, 

Bride  of  the  spirit,  flower  of  light, 
Mother  of  all  fair  energies, 

Not  my  weak  sonnet  may  recite, 
Freedom,  thy  strong  fair  sanctity, 

Or  paint  thy  glorious  walk  aright. 
Yet  oft  on  twilight  hills  I  see 

Thy  form  august,  and  feel  thy  power 
And  speak,  as  friend  with  friend,  with  thee. 

So  must  the  fond  muse  hour  by  hour 
Hover  and  hum  about  thy  sweet, 

Or  skirt  the  fringes'  of  thy  bower. 
In  impious  times  it  scarce  is  meet 

To  sound  thy  holier  rites,  or  bare 
Thy  threshold  to  unwashen  feet ; 

For  they  that  should  have  found  thee  fair 
Misprize  thee  ;  yea,  thy  children  turn 

Their  hands  to  rend  thee  and  not  spare. 


FREEDOM. 


117 


As  those  dear  limbs,  that  knew  no  urn, 

Bruised,  gasjied,  forlorn,  strewn   far    and 

near 
For  suns  to  blacken,  tides  to  spurn, 

For  which  young  Isis  many  a  year 
Goaded  her  fleet  papyrean  prow, 

And  blistered  Nilus  with  her  tear, 
Thou  liest  diffused,  dishevelled,  thou 

Dismembered  ;  loosed  thy  golden  knots, 
The  grandeur  niched  from  off  thy  brow. 

Thy  lovers  seek  thee  in  strange  spots 
And  find  about  thy  sacred  shards 

The  tender  dear  forget-me-nots. 
Lo,  these  thy  warriors,  these  thy  bards, 

Faithful,  will  gather  thee  complete, 
Cleanse  thee  in  spices  and  pure  nards, 

Close-all  the  cruel  seams,  reknit 
The  ravelled  thews,  and  all  the  broad  ' 

Proportions  model  and  refit ; 
Till  thou,  relumed  with  life  from  God, 

• 

With  thunder  clad,  with  lightning  shod, 
Break  all  thy  foes  beneath  thy  rod. 


A  PYTHONESS. 

RUDE  Pythia  of  my  mossy  grotto, 

Lank  blossom,  prithee,  breathe  for  greet 
ing 
Some  Golden  Verse,  some  Delphic  Motto. 

Beggar  and  lone  I  come  entreating, 
Knowing  thine  almsdeed  without  malice, 

Thine  alms  not  minished  for  repeating. 
I  pine  in  my  resplendent  palace 

Built  of  world's  wit,  prescripts  of  sages  ; 
I  thirst  beside  the  poet's  chalice, 

Am  sadder  for  the  master's  pages, 
And  ever  count  my  treasure  leaner 

For  testaments  of  all  the  ages. 
My  wealthiest  having  shows  far  meaner 

Than  this  vast  want  for  aye  increasing, 
Wise  answers  bring  me  pangs  far  keener 

Than  questions  that  will  find  no  easing  : 
Worship  not  stoops  to  our  devotion, 


A  PYTHONESS.  119 

Beauty  wings  lightly  past  our  seizing. 
Like  mariner  athirst  from  ocean, 

I  sought  these  dewy  haunts,  beseeching 
Some  well-spring,  some  miraculous  potion. 

But  Fate,  my  foolish  thought  outreaching, 
Part  for  a  mockery,  part  for  warning, 

Left  his  evangel  for  thy  preaching. 
My  bold  sweet  Cynic,  coldly  scorning 

In  worsted  poverty  the  gleaming 
Sidonian  tints  thy  mates  adorning, 

I  something  glean  from  thy  plain  seeming 
To  chide  my  humor.     Yet  another 

And  deeper  lore  is  round  thee  beaming  : 
'Twas  this  I  came  for,  this,  no  other  ; 

The  lore  of  Love,  all  lores  revoking, 
Of  Love,  the  wisest,  mightiest  mother. 

Though  wit  should  fail,  heart's  strength  be 
broken,- 

O  Soul,  let  her  high  name  be  spoken, 

Her  light  be  an  eternal  token. 


COMPLAINT  OF  PAN. 

A  FURLONG  from  the  hearth  of  man, 

Blown  from  the  frontlet  of  a  hill, 
Murmured  the  evening  voice  of  Pan  : 

"All  day  my  lips  with  breathings  thrill 
The  sacred  sevenfold  Nomian  reed, 

All  day  with  drifts  of  music  fill 
The  soft  hill-fold  and  billowy  mead, 

But  none  comes  forth  equipped  to  hear, 
The  song  to  fathom,  the  myth  to  read. 

My  embassies  of  love  and  cheer 
Are  thrust  with  hoot  and  buffet  forth 

The  rabbled  gateway  of  man's  ear. 
And  ye,  whose  lips  by  power  of  birth 

Sing  ope  the  wards  of  Fate  and  heir 
The  ancient  fulness  of  the  earth, 

Bards,  born  of  the  azure,  tell  me  where 
Lies  bound  the  daring  muse  that  brought 

Her  songs  from  high  above  the  air  ? 


COMPLAINT  OF  PAN.  I2l 

Ye  slacken  :  lo,  ye  wane  to  nought. 

Your  silken  idlesse  coos  and  purrs, 
Unquarried  lies  the  toilsome  thought. 

I  feel  about  my  steadfast  spurs 
The  chime  and  patter  of  your  feet, 

That  chase  my  shredded  gossamers. 
Ye  chirr  and  chirrup,  buzz  and  bleat, 

Ye  glass  yourselves  in  bubbles  fine, 
Or,  beardless  Satyrs,  round  my  seat 

Reel  from  the  foam-pink  of  my  wine, 
Or  ravel  a  sunbeam  for  trope 

To  gild  the  leanness  of  a  line. 
Soft  hands  of  dalliance  break  not  ope 

My  thrice-barred  ninefold  mystery, 
Smooth  vowel-liquid  rhymes  not  cope 

With  the  height  and  depth  of  melody. 
Praise  to  my  lordly  sons  that  sleep  ! 

O  immemorial  phantasy, 
Whose  boreal  pencils  lit  the  steep 

And  flushed  the  utmost  brow  of  heaven  ! 
Fire-breathing  hill,  world-girding  deep 

For  playthings  to  thy  hands  were  given, 


122  COMPLAINT  OF  PAN. 

And  down  thy  broad  creations  streamed 

Opulent  tints  of  morn  and  even. 
What  brave  delight  of  old  it  seemed, 

When  all  the  Arcadian  flock-sown  lawns 
With  Time's  auroral  warblings  teemed  ! 

The    pine-brakes     frolicked,     changed    to 

fawns, 
Yea,  every  shepherd  blew  his  oat 

In  light  of  crimson-glimmering  dawns. 
While  browsed  or  whisked  the  wanton  goat, 

I  felt  them  clamber  round  my  knees, 
Ravished  and  rapt  upon  my  note  : 

With  souls  like  lips  of  thirsting  bees, 
They  clung  and  sucked  my  honeyed  stops, 

Until  their  melody-drunken  glees 
Made  pant  the  multitudinous  copse 

And  dance  the  silver-footed  springs, 
The  mountain  tingle  to  his  tops. 

But  ye — ye  fondle  barren  strings, 
Too  dull  for  any  strain  of  mine, 

Too  feeble  ;  which  the  man  who  sings 
Maddens  his  numbers  with  a  wine, 


COMPLAINT  OF  PAN. 


123 


Whose  grape  ne'er  purpled  hill  or  plain, 
Dsemoniac,  kinsman  to  divine." 

Listening,  with  heavy  shame  and  pain 
Stricken,  I  staggered  and  fell  prone, 

And  broken-hearted  was  full  fain 
To  blend  with  silence  and  have  done, 
Since  more  forlorn  my  lyre  is  grown 
Than  hollow  bone  that  clanks  on  bone. 


OPEN  HOUSE. 

HOLD  open  house  ;  dwell  not  apart : 

Spread  forth  a  liberal  board,  and  keep 
A  world-wide  welcome  in  the  heart. 

To  entertain  the  gods  is  cheap  : 
They  come  in  dusty  rags,  and  crave 

A  little  bread,  a  little  sleep. 
Make  haste,  arise,  give  all  you  have  ; 

The  beggar's  staff  to  Mercury's  rod 
Will  change,  the  wrinkles  of  the  knave 

To  the  bright  features  of  a  god, 
And  into  wings  of  fire  the  shoes 

With  which  his  homely  feet  are  shod. 
Borne  upon  every  wind,  the  Muse 

Beats  at  the  casements  of  the  bard 
With  freightage  of  melodious  news  : 

But  all  is  dark  ;  he  keepeth  guard ; 
She  cannot  find  a  chink  or  rent : 

To  bless  the  overwise  is  hard. 


OPEN  HOUSE.  12$ 

The  pallid  prisoner,  worn  and  bent, 

Through  scrolls  of  magic  peeps  and  pores, 
Handling  with  a  sublime  intent 

Forgotten  spells  :  lo,  at  his  doors 
The  spirit-feet  of  Ariel  wait 

Whom  he  laboriously  implores. 
Fling  wide,  O  fool,  the  grate,  the  gate, 

The  couriers  knock,  the  daemons  throng, 
Accept,  accept  the  bounteous  fate. 

Nay,  rather  let  me  suffer  wrong 
Than  slight  the  meanest  elve  that  brings 

The  symbol  and  the  soul  of  Song. 
Bear  hence  the  mighty  harp  that  flings 
The  epic  thunder  from  its  strings, 
For  I  will  chant  rejected  things. 


REMINISCENCE. 


i. 


Too  much  of  Lethe  :  I  would  fain 

Relume  the  faded  types  that  lie 
Dark  in  the  mazes  of  the  brain. 

I  have  forgot  my  native  sky, 
The  cot  where  I  was  born  of  old, 

The  beauteous  forms  that  passed  thereby  ; 
Forgot  the  happy  lawns  I  strolled, 

The  flowers  that  thronged  about  my  door, 
Ambrosial  purple,  immortal  gold  ; 

Forgot  the  beach  I  frolicked  o'er, 

The  ocean,  whose  smaragdine  floor 

Reposed  unswept  by  mortal  oar. 

II. 

Could  I  but  frame  a  knot  would  hold 
Thy  slippery  spirit  for  a  span, 


REMINISCENCE.  i 

O  thou,  through  whom  the  cheerless  wold 

Takes  on  a  feature  and  a  plan, 
By  whom  it  winks  and  smirks  and  sues 

And  has  the  smiles  and  voice  of  man  ; 
Could  I  but  stay  thee  in  a  noose, 

Shy  brook,  I  would  not  let  thee  free 
Till  thou  hadst  answered  for  the  muse 

With  whom  I  travail ;  showed  to  me 
In  what  coy  cove  or  mossy  glen 

Is  hid  thy  fount  of  Memory ; 
That  drinking,  I  might  hear  again 

Feet  of  the  first-born  Periods, 
That  long  before  the  birth  of  men, 

Shod  with  the  buskins  of  the  gods, 
Sported  upon  the  ethereal  mead  ; 

Might  hear  the  strong  creative  odes 
Gush  from  the  Amphionian  reed 

Of  the  joyous  overflowing  Fate, 
And  see  the  rosy  Eon  lead 

To  the  blithe  dance  her  blushing  mate, 
Nature,  apparelled  as  a  bride, 

Opening  soft  her  maiden  gait, 


128  REMINISCENCE. 

With  lilies  garlanded,  the  pride 

Of  heavenly  gardens  ;  ah  !  might  see 
The  choric  motion  billowing  wide, 

Like  foam-fringed  circles  on  the  sea, 
Divinely  maddened  ; — to  the  measure, 

From  crypts  of  deep  eternity, 
To  join  the  eddying  deepening  pleasure 

Steal  elemental  forms  and  features, 
Atomic  throngs,  a  goodly  treasure, 

And  all  the  balanced  lordly  creatures, 
And  arm  in  arm  and  foot  to  foot 

Wheeling,   they  blend    their    diverse   nat 
ures ; 
Or,  changed  into  a  beam,  might  shoot 

And  kiss  the  everlasting  hills 
When  all  things  holy  hang  as  fruit, 

And  the  sole  Essence  stirs  and  thrills 
The  luminous  boughs,  a  whispering  breeze, 

Or  a  fine  perfume,  folds  and  fills 
The  sleeping  valleys  :  till  with  ease 

I  clear  at  one  heroic  bound 
The  pale  of  Time,  and  proudly  cease 

From  the  Day's  inharmonious  round, 


REMINISCENCE.  1 29 

Yea,  on  the  breast  of  that  which  is 

Melt  like  a  flake  of  softest  sound. 
Dost  mock  so  steep  a  hope  as  this, 

Wise  Brook,  and  bid  me  go  my  way 
Too  fragile  for  such  weight  of  bliss  ? 

Alas,  thy  ripples  frown  and  say, 
"This  rapture  crowns  not  every  spirit, 

And  not  all  men  remember  may. 
Dear  is  a  song,  for  you  can  hear  it, 

And  sweet  a  rose,  for  you  can  scent  it, 
But  God's  ripe  splendor,  who  can  bear  it  ? 

Who  drinks  my  fountain  may  repent  it. 
Such  fiery  ferments  and  so  rare 

The  long  eternal  suns  have  lent  it. 
And  Temperance  guards  with  falchion  bare 

This  stately  wassail  of  the  heart, 
And  sifts  all  men  that  enter  there. 

To  know  the  grandeur  of  this  art, 
One  must  be  white  as  washen  wool, 

Austere  and  whole  in  every  part. 
And  yet  'tis  from  of  old  the  rule, 

These  hostile  poles  should  inter-dart 
As  warp  and  woof  the  poet's  soul." 


A   MOOD. 

BE  mine  to-day  the  pastoral  crook, 

For  flock,  the  floweret's  tufts  of  fleece, 
For  food,  the  simples  by  the  brook. 

Fold  up  the  ponderous  mysteries  : 
Chance-wafted  gossamers  of  thought 

I  pluck  from  ringlets  of  the  breeze. 
Great  Pan  himself  will  not  be  caught ; 

Enough  to  hear  from  whispering  rush 
The  soul  of  Syrinx  faintly  brought, 

To  find  a  fillet  on  the  bush 
Fresh-fall' n  from  Sinoo's  shaken  hair. 

Although  not  mine  the  waves  that  gush 
From  uplands  of  Parnassian  air, 

Where  the  Camcense  proudly  sing 
Of  what  is  Lawful,  what  is  Fair, 

Let  me,  at  leisure  wandering, 
Just  when  the  morning  opens,  pass 

That  sweetest  Acidalian  spring, 


A  MOOD.      . 

And  spy  upon  the  flowery  grass 
Aglaia's  winsome  footprint  shine. 

Yea  if,  in  brimming  oft  the  glass, 
I  falter  from  the  perfect  nine, 
Rather  than  fail  of  things  divine, 
The  lesser  lovelier  three  be  mine. 


THREE   COUNSELLORS. 

HER  cloak  of  Twilight  fluttering  wide, 

Saddled  upon  a  ridge  of  wind, 
The  Eve  slid  crone-wise  to  my  side. 

With    beaked     and     shadowy    palm    she 

signed  ; 
She  pulled  her  hood  about  her  eyes 

And  doled  me  alms  of  her  dark  mind. 
"  Flee  not,  but  listen  and  be  wise  : 

Go  strip  the  laughter  from  thy  heart 
And  wear  for  girdle  thorns  and  sighs. 

Grain  in  thy  flesh  with  studious  art, 
For  woad,  despair  ;  nay,  sting  thy  soul 

With  death  and  hell  for  wholesome  smart. 
Embrace  my  gloom  :  assume  my  cowl : 

From  my  Tartarean  wells  of  fire 
Mantle  thy  muse's  myrrhine  bowl. 

Bristle  thy  verse  with  rough  desire  : 
Is  it  so  soft  a  thing  to  sing  ? 


THREE    COUNSELLORS 


133 


Sad  be  the  man  that  holds  the  lyre  : 
He  bears  the  whole  world  on  his  string, 

To  it  is  bound  a  struggling  god, 
And  utmost  Fate  folds  there  her  wing. 

Then  wed  thee  to  my  ancient  blood  : 
Get  thee  for  chords  strong  agonies 

And  in  flame-sheets  of  tempest  flood 
Thy  soul  across  them  ;  moult  thy  ease 

And  wipe  the  honey  from  thy  lip  ; 
Thy    words    shall    shame    and    shock,    not 
please." 

Anon  on  heaven's  eastern  steep 
Night's  weary  guards  sank  prone  among 

Their  pining  picket-fires  asleep. 
And  through  the  cloud-camp  loosely  flung, 

I  saw  the  opal  arrows  play, 
Of  Morning,  as  he  strolled  along. 

A  rosy  flake  of  orient  spray 
He  shattered  on  my  lids  and  smiled, 

And  sweetly  gesturing  seemed  to  say, 
"  What  lip  has  stricken  thee,  poor  child  ? 

What  gnome  waylaid  thy  wonted  glee, 


134  THREE    COUNSELLORS. 

Damped  all  thy  valor,  thy  wit  beguiled  ? 

Rise,  mix  thy  yearning  heart  with  me  : 
Fledge  with  my  aimless  breeze  thy  heel, 

Put  on  my  purples  and  with  me  flee. 
Who  heirs  from  heaven  the  lyre,  should  feel 

Motions  of  mighty  mirth  within  : 
Hades  he  tames  ;  can  sinless  steal 

His  will  from  the  Amathusian  queen  ; 
The  forks  of  Jove  arc  quenched  in  song, 

And  the  soothed  Sisters  kindlier  spin. 
The  lyre  is  sword  and  armor  strong, 

The  lyre  is  patience,  peace  and  power, 
Only  the  lyre  can  do  no  wrong. 

Stale  not  thy  heart  with  sighs,  nor  sour 
With  musty  wit,  but  for  thy  strain 

Speed  lightly  to  Thalia's  bovver. 
Nor  stay  thy  numbers  to  explain, 

But  bolt  the  toilsome  muse  at  home, 
And  slight  with  me  thy  studious  pain. 

Bright  hints  and  graceful  plans  will  come 
From  ripple  of  grass  and  throat  of  dove, 

The  hills  be  tabrets  where  you  roam, 


THREE    COUNSELLORS. 

And  every  rill  Castalia  prove, 

Love-strophes  round  all  blossoms  play, 
Dodona  speak  from  every  grove." 

I  mused  which  parlance  to  obey  : 
"  Both,"  spake  the  broad  serene  Midday, 

"  Knead  matin  red  with  vesper  gray." 


A  MORNING  ENCOUNTER. 

DEAR  bird,  whose  song  slid  on  a  beam 

From  some  watch-turret  of  the  dawn 
Betwixt  my  sleep  and  broke  my  dream, 

Calling  me,  while  the  east  was  wan, 
To  hear  thy  voluble  oracle 

Pronounced  with  pomp  to  grove  and  lawn, 
Would  I  might  shape  my  rhyme  to  tell 

The  giant  measure  of  my  debt 
For  that  great  fortune  which  befell. 

For  while  through  meads  my  course  was 

set, 
Washed  with  the  foam  of  new-made  light 

And  purple-veined  with  violet, 
I  saw  upon  an  orient  height 

A  child-like  shape,  yet  ripe  as  man, 
The  color  of  his  vesture  white. 

He  beckoned  me  :  and  I  began 
To  think  some  spirit  of  the  Blue 


A   MORNING  ENCOUNTER.  x 37 

Had  shortened  here  his  lucid  van. 
Too  glorious,  to  my  troubled  view, 

For  any  creature  of  the  womb, 
The  temper  of  his  body  grew 

Transpicuous  as  a  censer's  fume, 
Or  weft  of  iris  on  the  plain, 

Or,  virgin  from  an  antique  loom, 
Sendal  or  samite  without  stain, 

^ill  all  his  essence  was  made  bare, 
Pure  and  undimmed  by  mortal  pain, 

Milk-white  and  perfect,  without  scar ; 
And  over  all,  meseemed,  was  spread 

The  splendor  of  the  morning-star. 
Long  while  he  searched  my  eyes,  then  said, 

"  Brother,  the  fulgent  runes  of  God 
May  best  in  such  an  hour  be  read, 

While  mightiest  instincts  are  abroad, 
The  ether  quick  with  holy  spells, 

The  gnomes  of  darkness  overawed  ; 
While  fine  daemoniac  syllables 

Are  busy  round  the  couchant  ear, 
And  Fate's  eternal  canticles 


!3S  A   MORNING  ENCOUNTER. 

Sound  o'er  us,  easy  now  to  hear, 
And  on  the  crowning  branch  of  Thought 

The  spirit  perches  without  fear. 
Now  all  that  ever  we  have  sought 

Is  proffered  :  let  our  hearts  be  knit 
Serenely."     As  an  eagle  fraught 

With  all  his  youth,  when  vapors  flit 
That  masked  the  sun,  puts  on  his  might 

To  sail  into  the  blaze  of  it, 
His  fancy  steered  in  venturous  flight 

Wings  of  no  mortal  plumage  wove, 
Through  radiance  that  made  blank  the  sight, 

Straight  to  the  tale  that  seraphs  love  ; 
How  in  the  old  abysmal  gloom 

A  plastic  breath  was  taught  to  move, 
And  then  a  luminous  flower  to  bloom, 

The  effluence  of  whose  petals  strove 
The  dark  circumference  to  illume  ; 

Its  mystic  fragrance,  which  was  Love, 
Rose  through  the  deeps  in  melody  ; 

From  whorl  to  beaming  whorl  it  throve, 
A  form  of  wondrous  symmetry, 


A   MORNING  ENCOUNTER. 

Delighting  the  waste  fields  of  air, 
The  darling  of  Eternity  ; 

And  how  its  pollen  burst  in  fair 
Broad  flakes  of  stars,  and  every  one 

Took  of  God's  beauty,  each  his  share, 
And  fired  with  duteous  motions,  spun 

Harmonious.     When  his  utterance  ran 
Through  all  the  meaner  grades  and  won 

The  sacred  blossoming  of  Man, 
The  imperial  theme  wrought  in  his  song 

Such  height  as  only  spirits  can. 
What  beams  unto  his  orb  belong 

He  traced  in  fire,  and  all  his  proud 
Forecastings,  and  his  power  of  wrong  ;    ' 

Broke  through  the  sensuous  mists  that 

shroud, 
And  drew  with  high  and  solemn  glee 

His  spirit  naked  from  the  cloud, 
Shorn  of  all  lesser  faculty, 

And  elemented  of  white  flame, 
And  matchless  for  its  unity  ; 

And  urging  still  his  soaring  aim, 


139 


A  MORNING  ENCOUNTER. 

Borne  upon  numbers  wild  and  free, 

With  sound  of  many  a  secret  name 
And  the  large  sense  of  poesy 

And  wisdom  drawn  from  either  pole, 
In  stately  sequence  loftily 

He  sang  the  triumphs  of  the  Soul, 
And  with  what  subtile  links  is  bound 

Its  being  to  the  perfect  Whole. 
And  when  he  closed,  the  fields  around 

Trembled  in  waves  of  light,  and  flowers 
Burgeoned  in  fire  from  underground, 

And  buds  from  all  the  rosy  bowers 
Of  the  great  Dawn  broke  and  fell  fast 

Against  my  face  in  dazzling  showers, 
And  visions  rapt  me,  and  I  cast 

My  body  upon  earth  and  slept, 
Captive  to  dreams  of  purport  vast ; 

Till  the  sun  came  and  sunbeams  crept 
About  their  favorite  sense,  and  pried 

My  lids  asunder  :  and  I  wept 
To  find  no  daemon  by  my  side, 

But  only  birds  that  sang  of  him, 


A   MORNING  ENCOUNTER.  141 

Till  looking  westward  I  espied 

Upon  the  champaign's  purple  rim 

The  lustre  of  his  raiment  shine, 

And  caught  a  smile,  though  far  and  dim, 

And  something  no  man  may  define, 

A  gesture,  a  celestial  sign 

That  this  fair  creature  was  divine. 


EVENING   SONG. 

THE  fragrant  hollows  of  the  air 

Murmur  with  interfluent  power, 
And  all  is  poesy  or  prayer. 

And  summoned  by  the  affluent  hour, 
The  soul  with  paces  of  delight 

Steals  like  a  maiden  from  her  bower 
To  meet  her  lover  :  daemons  bright 

Flit  in  and  out  the  silver  doors 
And  haunt  the  porches  of  the  night : 

And  friendly  signals  from  far  shores 
Beacon,  and  the  rich  heaven  streams 

With  love  through  all*its  shining  pores. 
Truths,  wont  to  glance  in  fickle  gleams 

Across  the  shadowy  gulf  of  things, 
Burn  out  like  stars,  their  burnished  beams 

Summed  and  full-sheaved  :  Eolian  strings 
Sound  in  the  poet's  breast,  his  heart 

Leaps  like  a  roe,  and  all  the  springs 


EVENING   SONG. 

Of  being  into  fulness  start : 

He  fe.els  the  tightening  of  the  bond 
That  links  his  own  with  Nature's  heart. 

He  thrills,  he  waves  his  mystic  wand, 
And  songs,  from  bosoms  of  the  wind 

Flocking,  unto  his  lure  respond  : 
Like  moths  they  flutter  round  his  mind, 

Manifold  shapes,  a  hundred  hues 
Glimmering  :  he  is  too  gay  to  bind 

Their  fleet-foot  revels ;  and  his  muse 
Laughs  inly  at  her  great  opulence. 

He  feels  the  earth's  firm  fabric  fuse, 
And  all  the  frozen  forms  of  sense 

Thaw  into  plastic  waves,  and  Time 
Bow  to  some  vaster  influence. 

Yea  Nature,  like  a  ghostly  mime, 
Moults  her  gross  mask  and  slips  away, 

Her  seeming  discords  change  to  rhyme, 
Her  steadfast  bases  will  not  stay, 
And  all  her  ponderous  timbers  weigh 
Light  on  the  soul  as  beams  of  day. 


143 


A  CHARACTER. 

FORLORN,  who  chantest  hollow  dirge, 

From  under  damp  Trophonian  eaves, 
Of  primal  lapse  and  final  scourge, 

Lauding  the  life  that  deepest  grieves, 
The  brow  that  girds  itself  with  night, 

The  hope  that  chills  us  and  bereaves ; 
Whose  tongue  with  subtle  and  sweet  delight 

Tastes,  eloquent,  the  soul's  disgrace 
And  laps  the  garbage  of  her  plight ; 

Whose  pencil  paints  her  glorious  face 
Defaced,  her  breasts  deflowered  and  rent, 

Her  azure  eyes  opaque  and  base  ; 
Carving  thy  meagre  lineament 

Upon  her  mountains  of  vast  woe  ; 
Making  her  shame  thy  ornament, 

To  lend  thy  thunders  pitch  and  glow, 
Thy  dead  evangels  nerve  and  hue  ; 


A    CHARACTER. 

Even  thee  I  hate  not,  since  I  know 
There's  little  wholly  false  or  true  : 
Yet  thanked  be  Zeus,  who  erewhile  knew 
To  frame  a  planet  would  hold  two. 
10 


SOOTHSAYERS. 

O  HONEY-SWEET  in  thought  and  voice, 

Soothsayers  washed  in  odorous  dews, 
On  whom  the  peoples  fix  their  choice, 

What  tidings  from  the  Heavenly  Muse, 
What  fair  prescript  of  law  and  light, 

Purged  of  the  taint  of  modern  use  ? 
Ah  perfumed  martyrs  for  the  right, 

Rare  watchmen,  coming  in  at  even, 
Bold  warriors,  virgin  of  the  fight ! 

So  gently  amorous  of  heaven, 
So  coy  of  haste  and  zealous  fire, 

Your  lapses  hardly  count  to  seven. 
Profane  !     Not  scrupling  to  desire 

The  awful  pearls  of  God  to  aid 
The  dazzle  of  your  cheap  attire. 

Have  ye  seen  Beauty  ?     Has  she  laid 
A  weight  of  splendor  on  the  brain, 

Till  all  the  man  was  sore  afraid  ? 


SO O  THSA  YERS.  i  L 

Ye  ply  much  suppliance  in  vain  : 

Who  wins  her  perfect  smiles,  must  bring 
A  greatness  of  another  strain  : 

For  though  her  face  is  bland  as  spring, 
Oh  gentlier-eyed  than  any  flower 

Divinest  in  its  blossoming, 
Yet  on  her  forehead  hour  by  hour 

Lighten  like  stars  of  Araby 
The  solemn  symbols  of  her  power  ; 

Crown  over  crown  in  majesty, 
A  brightness  builded  like  a  tower, 

A  million  lights  in  harmony. 


LAW. 

WHAT  knightly  port  of  man  draws  near, 

What  hero  carved  from  the  antique, 
What  child  of  battle  and  the  spear  ? 

Full-armed  he  rides  by  lawn  and  creek, 
Fenced,  breast  and  thigh,  in  glorious  scale, 

The  visor  dark  on  brow  and  cheek. 
O  creature  fashioned  to  prevail, 

What  errand,  -what  ideal  quest, 
What  sainted  shrine,  what  holy  grael  ? 

Ever  his  lance  is  poised  in  rest, 
Ever  his  glances  search  afield, 

Ever  before  his  pillared  breast 
The  fulgent  orbit  of  his  shield 

Makes  splendor,  like  a  captive  sun  ; 
And  on  it,  graved  in  ample  field, 

The  letters  of  his  motto  run, 
"  The  perfect  Law."     O  dauntless  heart ! 

Proud  goal  forever  never  won  ! 


LAW.  I49 

Behold  from  brake  and  glen  they  start, 

All  shapes  that  bear  the  name  of  foe  ; 
Whatever  pierces  with  the  dart, 

Whatever  bends  afar  the  bow  ; 
And  monsters  of  the  middle  air 

Wheel  o'er  his  march  in  circle  slow, 
Or  sweep  on  thunder-plumes  to  tear. 

But  nothing  prospers  to  his  harm  : 
Midway  they  pause,  stung  with  despair. 

For  something  fateful  in  his  arm, 
Something  of  terror  on  his  plume 

Melts  with  the  breath  of  mad  alarm 
Their  order,  and  completes  their  doom  : 

Like  mist  they  drift  in  wracks  of  flight, 
Swift  blasts  confound,  strange  fires  consume. 

Mayhap  he  stirs  himself  for  fight 
To  wipe  some  dark  plague  from  the  earth  ; 

Who   sees   him   strike,    would   guess    the 

might 
Of  every  god  in  heaven  went  forth. 

His  broadening  purpose  knows  no  bar  : 
A  sleepless  warrior  from  his  birth, 


150  LAW. 

From  bourn  to  sliding  bourn  afar 
He  rides,  of  lawless  enmity 

The  mock  and  mark  by  sun  or  star. 
He,  without  sorrow,  without  glee, 

And  mingling  not  with  love  or  hate, 
Knows  one  strong  word,  Necessity. 

Sure  hands  of  a  conclusive  Fate 
Work  out  to  men  through  sword  and  lance, 

Through  what  they  shatter,  what  create. 
Not  short  nor  over  nor  askance 

The  pith  of  his  endeavor  falls  : 
No  slip,  no  halt ;  his  steps  advance 

Through  what  seduces,  what  appalls  ; 
Clear  in  the  counsel  of  his  mind, 

He  works  his  will,  whate'er  befalls. 
Him  yield  full  praise  :  ye  will  not  find 

His  equal  by  the  land  or  sea, 
And  yet  a  greater  than  his  kind, 

It  is  my  dream,  will  come  to  me, 

Larger  in  bearing  and  degree, 

And  of  diviner  race  than  he. 


LOVE. 

THE  best  among  the  sons  of  men, 

God  led  up  hither  for  a  grace  : 
Such  luck,  I  guess,  comes  not  again. 

Unknown  his  name,  for  our  two  ways 
Had  never  crossed  since  time  began, 

Our  eyes  not  mixed  their  kindred  rays. 
Yet  had  I  spoken  with  this  man 

Ere  the  blue  firmament  was  spun, 
Or  the  first  star  his  circuit  ran. 

No  casque  nor  cuirass  on  him  shone, 
Nor  guise  of  any  martial  thing  ; 

His  foe  breathed  not  beneath  the  sun. 
All  natures  gave  him  welcoming, 

Yea,  warring  kings  ungirt  their  ire 
To  fetch  him  a  love-offering. 

The  omens  writ  in  signs  of  fire, 
The  thunders  of  an  angry  law, 

The  startings  of  half-crushed  desire 


152  LOVE. 

Raged  far  below  him  :  for  he  saw 

Beyond  the  knitted  brows  of  night, 
Where  meaner  spirits  fail  for  awe, 

That  ocean  of  serenest  light ; 
So  was  he  gladdened  as  a  child 

That  gambols  in  its  mother's  sight. 
The  sweetness  of  his  mien  beguiled 

All  things  to  yield  him  of  their  best : 
From  hideous  forms,  from  brute  and  wild 

He  drew  by  charms  the  holiest, 
The  fairest.     Fate's  most  rude  intent 

Fell  like  a  rose  upon  his  breast. 
Ah  !  unto  him  the  gods  had  lent 

Power  so  sure,  repose  so  even, 
He  never  sighed  nor  toiled  nor  bent. 

Albeit  all  he  asked  was  given, 
No  sign  he  made,  he  shaped  no  vow, 

Nor  seemed  at  all  to  crave  of  Heaven. 
But  as  the  plume  above  the  brow 

Of  some  divinely  tempered  knight 
Cheerily  dances  whether  he  go 

To  mix  with  pastime  or  with  fight, 


LOVE.  ! 

His  deed,  that  stayed  a  lapsing  race 

And  sowed  the  dreary  wastes  with  light, 
Seemed  a  slight  symbol  of  his  grace, 

Hovered  above  him  airily, 
And  could  not  flatter  from  his  face 

The  lofty  dear  simplicity  : 
Yet  all  his  speech  was  tuned  thereby 

Unto  a  deeper  melody, 
And  all  the  glances  of  his  eye 

Lined  with  a  finer  majesty. 
Once  more,  yet  once  before  I  die, 

Ye  gracious  years,  lead  him  to  me 
Or  me  to  him,  that  Life  may  know 

The  grandeur  of  her  ministry  ; 
Till  her  frore  fountains  break  and  flow 
Down  from  these  polar  crests  of  snow 
To  the  warm  Eden  spread  below. 


A  DREAM. 

WHILE  the  night-flower,  Sleep,  inbreathed 

Her  perfume  deepest  in  the  brain 
And  softly  soul  and  sense  inwreathed 

With  dreams,  her  blossoms,  one  of  grain 
More  delicate  and  richer  dye 

I  culled,  therewith  to  trim  my  strain. 
To  the  tranced  fantasy  of  my  eye, 

Three  luminous  lilies  tall  and  white, 
In  a  Hesperian  plot  of  sky 

Burgeoned  from  amber  beds  of  light, 
And  waxed  full  petal  and  throve  a  space, 

Till  a  weird  breath  of  subtle  blight 
Fell  on  them  and  licked  out  their  grace. 

Thereon  a  threefold  fruit  they  bore, 
That  splitting  spouted  jets  of  rays 

And  changed  to  mighty  orbs  that  wore 
Marvels  of  brilliance  :  one  like  Jove, 

When  his  large  brows  are  lavished  o'er 


A    DREAM. 


155 


With  temperate  beams  ;  like  her,  one  throve, 

Who  in  soft  internebular  mead 
At  dayfall  fastens  dove  to  dove, 

Bruising  with  yoke  their  purple  brede  ; 
The  third  a  tremulous  opal,  pale 

And  red,  that  ran  with  rhythmic  speed 
Through  all  the  notes  of  Iris'  scale. 

Anon  my  dream  slid  down  to  earth, 
Where  frolicked  in  brook-garrulous  vale 

Three  children  that  pursued  with  mirth 
Quick  wink  of  night-fly  or  what  thing 

Their  light  moods  graced  with  passing  worth. 
But  when  those  Splendors,  beckoning, 

Lured  their  wild  eyes,  they  straight  forsook 
The  idlesse  of  their  travailing. 

Soul-buoyed  in  strong  ecstatic  look, 
Breathless  stood  each,  as  saint  who  sees 

God's  finger  writing  in  a  book. 
And  from  them  shot  with  sudden  ease 

Wings  woven  of  empyreal  fire,         • 
That,  stung  with  starry  memories, 

Yearned,  thrilled  and  flickered  with  desire 


A   DREAM. 

To  taste  their  lawful  element. 

Then  quivered,  like  a  fervid  lyre 
At  Phoebus'  tender  blandishment, 

Those  spirits  with  instinctive  throes, 
And  from  their  mortal  prisonment 

Timorous  and  faintly  fluttering  rose  ; 
Like  moths,  that  through  the  fissured  floss 

Bursting,  their  silver  films  disclose. 
But  when  their  bolder  steerings  cross 

The  circle  where  the  vapors  cruise, 
Fierce  flaps  of  tempest,  jarring,  toss 

Their  oarage  in  wild  pools,  and  bruise 
Their  feathery  lacings,  and  their  glow 

O'ertarnish  with  malicious  dews. 
Anon  the  gulf  of  air  below 

Broke  into  showers  of  colored  flame  ; 
False  lights  meteorous  to  and  fro 

The  dusk  abysm  went  and  came 
In  mad  corant  and  glittering  maze, 

Le'wd  motions  shadowing  feats  of  shame. 
Each  spangle  in  the  whirling  chase 

Began  to  pant  voluptuously, 


A  DREAM.  J57 

Dilated,  changed,  and  took  the  phase 

Of  nymph  or  maiden  marvellously  : 
A  passionate  bosom  here,  whereon 

Lily  and  rose  were  fair  to  see  ; 
There  becked  an  amorous  arm  ;  and  one 

Pouted  lush  lips  in  act  to  kiss  ; 
One  throbbed  like  Venus'  mystic  zone. 

Here  laughed  that  treacherous  queen  of 

bliss 
Who  turned  her  suitors  out  to  graze, 

With  tusks  to  grunt,  with  coils  to  hiss  ; 
There  she,  the  sharp  sword  of  whose  face 

Smote  host  and  counter-host  and  slew, 
And  hacked  gray  Ilion  to  his  base. 

And  while  those  daring  children  flew 
Baffled  and  vapor-clogged  and  lame 

In  slackening  gyres,  half  lost  to  view, 
One,  hopeless  of  the  arduous  game, 

Seduced  by  that  coruscant  glare, 
Forgot  his  ardors  and  heart-tame 

Swerved  down  :  whereon  a  dying  flare 
Shot  from  his  wings,  that  blackening  rolled 


158  A   DREAM. 

Two  drifts  of  smoke,  and  everywhere 
Wide  dragon-gorge  and  serpent-fold 

Writhed,  yawned  ;  and  things  of  bristling 

hide 
Their  bestial  tongues  with  famine  lolled. 

These  gulphed  him  headlong  :  and  I  sighed, 
Yea  well-nigh  waked  for  moan  and  pain 

At  him  who  marred  his  virgin  pride. 
Then  rose  from  mountain-ridge  and  plain 

Innumerable  clamors  rude, 
A  hoarse  malign  derisive  strain. 

And  I  beheld  a  multitude 
Swarm  like  a  locust-cloud,  whose  rain 

Leaves  all  a  fruited  champaign  nude. 
These  could  not  their  false  hearts  refrain 

At  quenching  of  that  creature  bright, 
But  roared  a  tempest  of  disdain. 

The  hardier  twins  in  dauntless  flight 
Clove  the  dark  belt  of  mist,  and  glode 

High  through  the  tideless  waves  of  light. 
But  one  drooped,  faltering  from  his  road  ; 

Less  studious  of  the  opulent  skies 


A  DREAM.  r$9 

And  those  three  glorious  goals  of  God, 

Than  of  the  herd  whose  voices  rise 
Thridding  the  labyrinths  of  his  ear 

Soft  as  the  feet  of  melodies. 
By  them  he  tacks  his  voyage,  veers 

To  match  their  humors  ;  who  reply, 
Battering  the  concave  with  brute  cheers. 

O  wonder  !  from  brow,  breast,  and  thigh 
Three  emerald  wisps  sprang,  such  as  lure 

To  midnight  ooze  the  traveller's  eye. 
These,  wheeled  in  many  a  fickle  tour, 

Waylaid  him  and  confused  his  thought, 
Till  he  forgot  those  splendors  pure, 

And  reached  a  maddened  hand  and  caught 
Their  hollow-glimmering  essences 

And  in  his  hair  their  lustres  wrought ; 
Now  changed  to  forky  tongues,  a  tress 

Of  green  ophidian  twine,  that  freeze 
His  brain  with  lithe  and  cold  caress. 

Whereon  his  plumes  by  quick  degrees 
Sicken  and  pale,  their  perfect  type 

Shrivelled  in  sad  and  dark  decrease. 


l6o  A   DREAM. 

And  he,  his  giant  error  ripe, 

Plumped  sheer  amidst  the  seething  throng, 
That  shrieked,  smote  tymbal  and  blew  pipe, 

And  thundering  many  a  sordid  song 
Haled  him  triumphal,  couched  on  gold, 

Through   reek   of    praise    and   bellowings 

strong. 
But  when  this  noisome  clangor  rolled 

Past  touch  of  sense,  I  laughed  for  glee 
To  mark  that  holier  spirit  hold 

His  heavenly  quest  in  circles  free, 
Swathed  in  such  sheets  of  radiance 

The  vision  wrestled  e'en  to  see 
His  plumage  winnowing.     But  his  vans, 

Meseemed,  flushed  with  impassionate  hues 
And  strengthened.     Then  in  deeper  trance 

I  saw  those  sovereign  splendors  loose 
Three  awful  hands  from  forth  the  blaze, 

And  in  each  palm  for  spiritous  use 
A  pencil  of  immortal  rays, 

Which  he  ensheathed  deep  in  his  soul. 
No  more  I  witnessed,  such  the  daze 


A   DREAM.  l6l 

That  whelmed  me.     But  from  pole  to  pole 
A  pulse  of  gladness  seemed  to  run, 

A  tremor  of  melody  through  the  Whole. 
Unto  a  hidden  grove,  to  shun 

Men's  eyes,  this  spirit  paced  alone, 

And  no  man  wist  what  he  had  done. 
11 


OMENS, 
I. 

WHAT  cheerful  omens  flush  the  skies 

For  those  that  watch  the  years'  slow  birth 
With  doubtful  hearts  and  sober  eyes  ? 

' '  A  low  -hard  wailing  from  the  earth  ! 
A  flood,  world-wide,  without  an  ark  ! 

A  time  of  blackness  and  of  dearth  ! " 
Is  all  so  sad  ?     Is  Hope  made  dark 

On  all  her  altars,  and  no  priest 
Awake  to  feed  the  fainting  spark  ? 

"  The  devils  flocking  to  the  feast, 
The  lie  enshrined,  the  bating  trust, 

Signs  of  the  sceptre  of  the  Beast ; 
The  clash  of  bruits,  the  surge  of  dust, 

And  chaos,  whetted  claw  and  beak, 
With  feverous  eyes  of  burning  lust 

Hovering  like  night  above  the  reek  ; 


OMENS.  163 

Wisdom,  an  eyeless  Cyclops,  strong 

To  waste  the  thing  he  would  but  seek  ; 
Fair    Youth,    that    lopped    the    boughs    of 
wrong, 

Planting  the  same  in  hoary  age, 
And  bards  grown  careless  of  the  song, 

And  saints  with  prayers  that  turn  to  rage  ; 
Fierce  humors,  which  the  poisonous  broth 

Of  discord  only  can  assuage  ; 
These  and  a  thousand  ills,  the  froth 

Of  life  and  fate,  are  plain  to  see, 
While  good  men  falter  or  wax  wroth, 

Toiling  with  sad  hard  energy 
To  cleanse  the  surface  of  the  pool, 

Leaving  the  fetid  oozes  free." 
What  then  ?     Shall  ancient  ardors  cool, 

And  madness,  all  unthwarted,  base 
Secure  the  bulwarks  of  his  rule  ? 

Thank" God,  not  yet;  while  one  sure  place 
Abides  to  stay  the  planted  foot, 

There  fight  the  baffle  of  the  race. 
More  fire  will  yield  us  less  of  soot. 


1 64  OMENS. 

Breathe  deeper ;  summon  power  from  far, 
Nor  crave  a  rash  and  sudden  fruit. 

Nay,  let  no  coward  lesson  mar 
The  creed  of  hope,  the  brave  man's  creed, 

Summit  and  sum  of  what  we  are. 
Welcome,  whose  eyes  are  wise  to  read 

What  gracious  auguries  are  born 
From  prophet's  word  or  hero's  deed. 

If  many  monstrous  things  forlorn, 
In  lawful  silence  wrapt,  are  laid 
"  Deep  out  of  sight,  too  poor  for  scorn  ; 
If  many  hearts  of  youth  are  swayed 

By  thoughts  that  nurse  a  richer  hour 
Than  those  for  which  their  fathers  prayed  ; 

If  Reverence  shape  a  fairer  flower, 
And  the  great  Soul  be  prescient 

Within  herself  of  purer  power, 
Trust,  while  the  patient  bright  Event 

Through  rifts  across  her  ancient  shell 
Thrusts  pinions  of  divine  intent. 

Too  faithless  !  meanly  thus  to  tell 
The  beads  of  hope.     Though  demon  hands 


OMENS.  165 

Flung  gaping  every  door  of  hell, 
And  men  relapsed  to  broken  bands, 

One  heart  will  not  his  faith  deny 
While  one  cool  morn  her  flower  expands, 

Or  through  the  darkling  wrack  on  high 

One  cheerful  fleck  of  azure  sky 

Smiles  courage  to  the  drooping  eye. 

II. 

For  while  a  miasm  in  the  blood 

Freezes  and  fires  a  fickle  race, 
Fate-harried,  ignorant  of  the  Good, 

Some  tokens  of  immortal  grace 
Visit  the  spirit  large  in  trust, 

Who,  seated  in  her  inmost  place, 
Across  the  gurge  of  foolish  dust, 

Reads  on  the  sky  in  fiery  trace 
The  final  triumph  of  the  just. 

III. 

O  Freedom  !  theme  caressed  by  all, 
The  loudest  voiced,  least  understood, 


1 66  OMENS. 

It  little  profits  to  recall 
'  Thy  solemn  traits  and  holy  mood, 
Or  of  the  bond  severe  to  tell, 

That    makes    thee    one   with   Truth    and 

Good. 
Yet  thou  alone  canst  breathe  the  spell 

That  works  within  the  soul  of  man 
The  wise  and  perfect  miracle. 

His  powers  long  mouldering  under  ban 
'Tis  thine  to  rescue,  and  give  back 

Their  crowns  and  sovereignty  again  ; 
Till,  'scaping  from  the  slime  and  wrack, 

Re-poised  on  her  aerial  van, 
The  spirit  mounts  her  starry  track, 

Nor  fears  to  prove  the  antique  plan, 
When  through  the  tempest  and  the  fire 

Man  talked  with  God  and  He  with  man. 
.  Arise,  O  Man,  from  dust  and  mire, 

Regather  in  a  lordly  hour 
Thy  stature  and  thy  proud  desire. 

Build  with  sweet  patience  and  sure  power 
Thy  greatness  up  through  arch  and  dome, 


OMENS. 

Thy  strength  through  citadel  and  tower. 
No  more  in  shameful  exile  roam  : 

Taught  of  thy  birth  and  lineage, 
Be  to  thyself  a  heaven  and  home. 

Write  down  a  fresh  historic  page  ; 
Quitting  the  cycles  now  outworn, 

Let  bolder  thoughts  thy  wit. engage. 
Bring  to  the  gateways  of  the  morn 

The  broad  majestic  Period, 
That  asks  his  season  to  be  born. 

Let  faith  embrace  an  ampler  God, 
Knowledge  be  rounded  to  a  sphere, 

Justice  triumphant  break  her  rod. 
Recite  a  lesson  more  austere, 

Which  braver  bards  shall  learn  to  sing, 
And  braver  men  shall  love  to  hear. 

Far  off,  too  far  the  Hours  that  bring 
This  morrow  which  we  pine  to  see, 

Far  off  they  wait  with  folded  wing. 
Yet  holy  thoughts  are  prophecy, 
The  hopeful  eye  is  victory, 
The  present  soul  a  world  to  be. 


UNIVER3  7T  C  .?  <          ^ORNIA 
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